The Disappearing Life
by tripping fruit
Summary: Robin, Amon, and the trials and tribulations of trying to live invisibly. Post-series.
1. The Beginning

(A/N:  This story is very, very _in media res_.  You're starting off here, and next chapter, you'll see where I stick you.  For now the characters may seem kind of

OOC and whatnot, and hopefully that'll get better as I keep going and develop and expand a bit more, but for now…I don't know.  If it sucks, it sucks.  So be it.  But here we go.)

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The dawn was coming through the grey clouds, bulging and heavy with precipitation.  Thunder rumbled off in the distance somewhere, then rumbled again, decidedly closer.  Echoes of the din in the valley a good distance below could still be heard, traveling up the sides of the hills, resounding off the trees, bouncing back down to earth from the soupy, dense sky above.

Below them, looking much akin to a house of blocks knocked over by a tantrum-throwing child, lay the rubble that had been Factory, a few hours ago.  People were no longer visible; cars, trucks, and other types of vehicles looked like tiny models meant for a strange diorama of sorts.

It was cold out.  Despite the cold that threatened to seep through to Robin's very bones, her very soul, she stopped to turn and look back down the mountain, through the trees, out at the landscape before her and the mess below her.  Sensing her sudden pause and hearing the halt of her footsteps, her considerably worse-for-the-wear companion stopped his own climbing and leaned against a tree, winded.  He too looked down below, although if Robin had looked back to him, she would have noticed that his face wore a curious dual expression: part of him glad for the break from climbing, his body already weary; the other part irritated that they weren't moving, and quickly.

"What is it?" he asked her, tersely.  She didn't look at him.

"Where are we going?" she asked of him, panting slightly.  She felt like she should ask, even though she had the feeling that for once Amon had about as much of a clue as she did—which was close to nil.  

Silence, filled only by the sounds of their breath, birds in trees, noises far below, and thunder.  "We've got to get out of the forest, out of this area entirely.  They're going to mobilize eventually and start looking for us, probably."  Amon winced, slightly, and rubbed at his ribs gingerly.  Something definitely didn't feel right around perhaps his second or third rib on his left side, but he'd take care of that later.  At least his lip had stopped bleeding.

Robin watched the sun break through the clouds, ever so briefly, to illuminate the valley below.  "And then?"

"Away," was his only response.  

"Away where?"

"We're _alive_."  Amon's words were terse, strained, irritated.  It sounded very much like he was frustrated at his own lack of knowledge on what to do.  Robin decided not to push her current line of questioning any further.  "I haven't thought much beyond that, Robin."

She turned to look at him, her neck aching horribly with the strain, her face feeling gritty and very sore on one side due to a rather nasty scrape.  She was sore all over, disgustingly filthy and tired, and her left shoulder ached dully, but she managed to push all of that out of mind when she let her gaze rest on Amon.  He looked as if he'd been hit by a truck.

Not as if he'd ever admit that he felt worse than she did, or that his injuries were any more extensive than hers.  His hands were bloodied from gashes and nicks all over his knuckles, from moving chunks of concrete and girder to free them from Factory; there was still a great deal of dried blood down along his neck and somewhat upon his face—apparently, somewhere, along the way, something had hit Amon full on in the mouth, and when they'd first emerged from the debris, he'd looked like a vampire fresh from the feast.  Robin wasn't sure what the rest of his injuries were (she was thankful that he still had all his teeth) but from the way he was leaning on the tree he'd stopped next to, she knew she hadn't seen the whole tale of the tape yet.

But, like he'd said: they were alive.

"The sun's coming up," Robin murmured, turning back to look out at the sky, pregnant with rain, threatening to give birth any moment.  A faint smile spread across her lips, causing her scraped cheek to protest with a slight burning sensation.  "We lived to see another day."  Silence.  "Dawn.  Have you ever seen anything this beautiful?" she added on, quietly, the full force of the reality hitting her—she _was_ alive, when, had everything not gone the way that it just had, she could have very well been dead.  Very, _very_ dead.  Tears stung at her eyes, suddenly, and despite her efforts to keep her eyes moving, to not blink, to look upwards, they began to fall regardless. 

"No," Amon said, his tone as close to comforting as Robin had ever heard it, "no, I haven't."  She listened to the sound of his feet turning, the ground crunching and displacing beneath his shoes.  "Robin.  We need to keep moving."

She sighed, turning around to follow his broad back, not bothering to disguise the wobble in her voice, not bothering to wipe the tears from her dusty face.  "I know," she whispered, tromping up the hill behind him, depressed, thankful, determined, angry, hurt, _lost_.

"I know."


	2. Spark

Tiptoeing, she treaded as lightly as she could across the carpet, every rasping whisper of her bare feet across the carpet sounding like the detonation of a bomb in her ears. She knew the man in the room adjoining the parlor-room slept as if he were barely asleep at all, therefore, she took extra pains to be as silent as humanly possible. She was half convinced that he was awake despite her attempts at stealth; he was probably laying in bed aware of her every move, her every sound; he was seeing her in his mind's eye. Considering that he'd caught her before in her attempts to sneak out, he'd awoken to her making barely any noise at all—she felt her seeming paranoia about his state of wakefulness was well- founded.  
  
To the loveseat she traveled, sitting upon it gently lest it give off some sort of loud, revealing creak. Thankfully it did not, and she sat in complete stillness and silence for all of a minute listening with trained hearing for any sort of rustling from the other room, any sort of sign that he might be awake and disgruntled at being so. After a minute, her pulse slowed and her breathing resumed normally—she hadn't realized that she'd been holding it—and she sank back into the cushions of the old-fashioned loveseat (albeit gently to prevent creaking).  
  
The sun was rising, but the room was cold. They were in Amsterdam; tomorrow, London, or perhaps one of the surrounding burgs should London prove to be too hectic or threat-presenting. It'd been that way for almost four months—she'd long since lost count of the months, the days, the hours of virtual imprisonment, whereas he knew the length of their flight down to the day. Her heart pounded like a base drum just thinking about it.  
  
So, she resolved not to think about it anymore. It was more fun to pretend as if it was all just one big, secretive vacation, anyway.  
  
He did not sleep at night; a trend that had started shortly after they'd ended their brief, secretive stay in the city of Paris. He never explained why he suddenly decided that he would stay up all night. She assumed it was for security reasons, assumed that it made him feel useful. She also suspected that it was because he was beginning to have difficulty sleeping; he seemed to do more thinking while laying in bed than sleeping. She slept at night while he slept for four to five hours right at sunup, during which time she would stay awake to stand guard. He had not asked her to do so, but she'd felt it only right, considering he watched over her all night during her eight to nine hours of restful sleep. He took much less than she but it seemed to be all he needed; she never saw circles under his eyes nor noticed him yawning, and never heard him complain. But then again, Amon had never complained about much. Sleep, Robin figured, was the least of his worries.  
  
There hadn't been any Hunters for quite some time. They'd encountered quite a few attempting to make their way out of Japan, after the incident at Factory, but they'd eventually snuck out into Hawaii. From there, they'd travelled into California, the United States—Robin, despite the dangers facing them, had convinced Amon to do at least a bit of sightseeing, mostly at night. Amon had intended for them to become lost in America with the help of Nagira's contacts, but she hadn't felt comfortable there at all, and neither had Amon; she could tell these things. Travelling, travelling—through California, the barren expanses of southern Arizona and New Mexico, through Texas and Oklahoma, up and across Kansas (the people there had thought them rather odd), over, over through many more states that all faded into a blur in Robin's mind, up along the eastern seaboard, until they'd reached New York City, which Robin really hadn't liked. From there they'd flown to Paris, and from Paris on, it'd been one giant, warped grand tour of Europe. Amon had been talking about going back to the southern part of Asia; perhaps Hong Kong, or Bangkok, or Kuala Lumpur—any large city where they could be lost and never found—but still they remained in Europe, despite the dangers, Robin's sense of purpose and confidence and Amon's terse worry and discomfort with his newly-spawned powers growing with every passing day.  
  
Wherever they went, Amon seemed to have all the necessary information ready and prepared; a new name for every apartment or hotel room they rented, a mild mastery of the country's language, all the right papers, the right cars with the right tags, the right amount of money. In a phone conversation with Nagira, weeks ago, she'd asked him where Amon was getting all the money to fund all of their never-ending flight from SOLOMON—and the world—from.  
  
"Family resources," Nagira had replied. Robin hadn't pressed further. She knew next to nothing about Amon's (and partially Nagira's) family; she didn't figure Amon would give if she pressed. So she said nothing, and accepted the good luck of the situation she'd fallen into, the luck that depended on a certain very resourceful man's betrayal of all he'd known. She was thankful and quiet.  
  
Very rarely was Robin allowed outside during the daytime by herself, or even at all. Amon seemed intent upon turning them into vampires; he insisted that during the daytime it was too risky to move about, even in vastly large cities. SOLOMON, he insisted, was everywhere. Robin knew that SOLOMON and STN-E were both far-reaching, and so did Amon; they'd both worked for them in the past in Europe, but she thought that sometimes Amon was taking his level of precaution a bit too far. She suspected it had something to do with the fact that he was dealing rather poorly with his emerging Craft powers, the fact that he even had them at all—that he was a Witch, but she said nothing. She was thankful and quiet—she was also tactful and knew exposed nerves and loaded questions when she saw them.  
  
The rising sun was beginning shine through the windows, into the apartment they'd rented for the next however-long-until-he-stopped- paying, casting a bright yellow pinkish light across all of the antique furnishings in the sitting room that she currently rested in. His door had not moved; it remained opened a mere crack, displaying the deep darkness from within. He always shut all the draperies or blinds tightly so that no light would enter, so that he could sleep through the early morning without knowing it was early morning. Robin was always awake for the sunrise, by now well used to spending a few hours by herself sitting in the emerging light, thinking deeply, sometimes not-so-deeply, and flexing her fledgling powers.  
  
Ever since the incident at Factory in Japan, and even well before, Robin had found her powers expanding slowly, bit by bit, day by day. She was now beginning to understand, in moments of silent reflection, why she was to be called the Eve of Witches, she thought. Her powers were expanding, and they didn't seem to be stopping—to both her delight and her horror. Amon purported to be very Amon about it and said nothing more oft than not, but Robin could tell that it filled him with unease and worried him—he was worried, she knew, that they would expand to a point where she could no longer control them and they would drive her mad.  
  
Au contraire, incidentally one of her favourite French terms (as cliché as it was); she found that the more her powers expanded, the more at ease she felt. That was why she was so concerned about waking Amon this morning. It was partially because of the enduring guilt she felt at being able to sleep all night while he garnered only a few hours in the morning (but he insisted), and also because it was the only time she was alone to flex her newborn abilities without Amon having a minor meltdown (he seemed to be convinced that every power of the Craft that she used was like a beacon, calling Hunters to them from far and wide, as if they could sense it—perhaps some could).  
  
Confident then that he would not awake, she settled back into the green velvet loveseat fully, resting one thin, white arm on the dark, wooden, delicately curved arm rest. The sun was shining in through the parlor room windows as she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and cleared her mind of all thoughts except one.  
  
Reach.  
  
The experience took her breath away every time; it was as if the ground had dropped out from beneath her and her heart had skipped a beat for a full minute, her soul lifted up and out of her body, flew outwards, high into the clouds. Her mind began to reach out, with arms spreading out in all directions like the vines of a creeping ivy plant in fast-forward.  
  
It wasn't very defined yet, the power, but she hoped it would become more defined. Her mind soared, up and out and over, gliding over tens, then hundreds, then thousands of little warm glowing bodies that represented other Witches. They looked like nothing more than lights viewed through a thick fog; hazy, weak things, but she knew it was them; she could feel it, she could feel them. The ones that were closest to her immediate location glowed brighter (the first and brightest always being Amon, his presence glowing in the other room even without the power of her Craft), felt warmer, the others that were farther away merely had dim coronas about them and were lukewarm. She tried to touch as many as she could, gently, reassuringly. To her it felt like she was laying a friendly, understanding hand on their shoulder, as if to say I understand, I am here, and I will change things when the time comes—but rather pointedly as well. She wanted them to be able to feel it, her touch. She wanted them to know that she was there, at least in a way. Even if all a Witch did was look over his or her shoulder as they walked down the street, thinking that they had felt someone there—well, then, that was a start. And Robin was proud.  
  
She tried to touch them all, reassure them all, but as much as she tried to control it (although her control was getting much better than it had been when she first discovered that she had this particular power of the Craft) her mind inevitably began to soar, to hurry, to roar over the warm glowing bodies she saw in her mind's eyes; until she did not know how fast she was going, how far she was going, how far away all the bodies she was seeing were—  
  
--and yet it was beautiful, the loss of control, she found. The knowledge that there were so many out there like her; so many who could help her, help her to help herself, that she could help, and the beauty of their souls and their Crafts—it made her want to cry, her breath catching in her throat as the individual spots of warmth began to blur into one giant river. It was as if someone had taken a picture of a freeway at night, with the lens wide open for as long as it could be open. All the lights blurred into one.  
  
The voices started in then, they always did. It was more like a giant thrum of voices, softly whispered things that melded together into a giant hum, but somehow it calmed Robin and set her at ease. These were the voices of her people, her brethren, the people she was meant to lead into a new era. Her mind tingled with the prospect of it. Her mind and her mouth began to murmur back, trying to whisper as many calming, reassuring things as she could to the entities, her lips moving slightly externally as the rest of her body fell into a coma- like state. It was almost as if her soul had moved out to blur with the others, becoming a picture of the freeway, moving at a million miles an hour, out of focus—  
  
--Something was pulling her back; everything began to slow down, the blur became less consistent and more of a spotty streak. She continued to whisper to them, feeling like she had so much more to say, but the spotty streak was zooming outward rapidly, like a camera zooming out to its widest frame. The warm coronas around her went away and then there was only one, giant, blindingly bright and sun- fire hot presence right in front of her, but she did not stop whispering, she could not—she knew the others could still hear her, and she channeled the powerful sun storm light presence in front of her, using it as an amplifier for her messages—  
  
"Robin."  
  
Robin's eyes snapped open at the stricken utterance of her name. They blinked, unfocused, a few times before settling on the half-worried, half-angry face in front of her. That was the presence that had been so strong in her mind that had almost blinded her with its intensity. It was Amon. He had been standing right in front of her for who knows how long, attempting to bring her out of her contact.  
  
"What do you think you were doing?" he whispered angrily, his large hands on her shoulders, engulfing them completely. The look in his eyes made her shiver in her thin silk slip that she'd taken to sleeping in for his sake; to spare him the discomfort of knowing she slept nude, and gooseflesh rose over her skin. "No, I know what you were doing. I heard you, Robin."  
  
"I was making noise?" she queried, in disbelief. She'd been completely silent in her motions in the parlor—how could she have awoken him, she wondered?  
  
"In my mind, Robin," he continued, sounding very upset. "In my mind. I could feel you, I could hear you." He stared at her weightily for a moment, his bottomless grey eyes boring down into her green ones. "I thought I told you not to do this any more."  
  
She looked back up at him, her face devoid of emotion (as she was willing it to be). "I'm sorry." What was it that he disliked more, she wondered: that she was reaching out with her powers, possibly sending up locator flags for the STN-E, or that she was touching his mind?  
  
"It's dangerous," Amon continued, giving her shoulders a slight shake for emphasis. "We do not know what resources the STN-E has at its disposal—what if one of the people you're seeing is working for them?"  
  
Robin refused to break their stare first, despite his heated glare with the intentions that she would. "I just wanted to feel them. It's so...comforting. There are so many of them, so pure, so good—Witches, Amon, like you and I. If I don't reach out to them, no one will, and they could use their power for wrong."  
  
At the reminder that he was now a full-blown Witch, Amon tensed and frowned deeply, the corners of his well-formed mouth turning downward dramatically. "That's their problem." He stood, eyeing her critically, the harshly judgmental look upon his face that he often wore. It seemed to Robin as if he were trying to decide, sometimes, how he had allowed himself to be sucked into such a situation with such a person as her. He stalked away from her suddenly, heading back into his room with long, powerful strides. Robin watched him go, folding her thin arms over her chest. "Not yours or mine," he threw over his shoulder as he approached his room.  
  
"But it is," she called softly, and Amon froze; stopped, turned his head to look at her. His trademark slight frown had evolved into a full-blown scowl, and Robin shrank down in her seat, somewhat. She hated to disagree with Amon, or to make him angry, but it was becoming apparent to her that if she didn't stand up to him soon he was just going to drag her around the world for the rest of her life, looking over their shoulders all the time. Robin didn't want to live like that forever, plus, it wasn't the destiny intended for her. She knew that Amon really didn't want to either, somewhere deep inside. It wasn't like him to run; wasn't like him to be afraid.  
  
"I really think," he replied, flatly, "that it isn't." He continued on to his room and re-entered it, returning the door to its original position, open a mere crack. Robin sat in the parlor room for a moment, gathering her strength and her courage, and then stood, her slip sliding against her legs as she did so. Silently she made her way to the sliver of darkness that represented Amon's room, and she nudged the door open a bit wider with the back of her hand. In the dim, almost non-existent light of the room, she watched a vaguely Amon- shaped lump shift about on the bed. As she opened the door wider yet she discovered that the Amon-shaped lump had resigned itself to looking at her in the peculiar Amon-way of managing to look nonchalant and extremely irate at the same time.  
  
"What?" he asked her, in monotone, as if he wasn't perfectly aware that she was getting ready to make one of her few and far between stands. "Robin, couldn't this wait until I've had some sleep?"  
  
She stared back at him through the open door; a light girl in a light room staring into a dark room with a dark man. "Couldn't what wait?"  
  
"One of your bouts of childish righteousness," he replied. "We've been over this before. At least give me the benefit of some sleep before you give me the same argument again."  
  
But it wasn't the same argument; not this time. Robin had been building up the courage for a week, stewing there in the rooms in Amsterdam, mulling over her potential words as she wandered the streets of the city at night; sometimes by herself, secretly, sometimes with an alert Amon at her side . Things were going to change. She was tired of hiding, tired of imitating a vampire, tired of being afraid. This time, she wouldn't allow herself to be intimidated by his blunt words and his daddy-knows-best attitude—he thought one way and acted another, when really Robin was beginning to suspect that he was just as lost as she was.  
  
"I want to find others," she went on, undaunted by his sour mood. "We can't just keep running forever—it's been weeks since we've seen a Hunter, or even been followed anywhere. I think SOLOMON's given up on us, Amon. Even they won't try forever."  
  
"We don't know that," Amon replied, and she heard the sound of rustling, shifting; his form was moving and Robin saw that he was lying back down. Her statement had started off very much like every other stand she'd made, and apparently he thought he was going to be able to take this one lying down. "SOLOMON does not give up. They're not going to stop until we're dead." He paused for a moment and shifted around some more in his bed. "And going out and trying to find other Witches is a terrible idea."  
  
Robin bit down the urge to point out that he only thought it was a bad idea because he couldn't deal with the fact that he was a Witch, now, too, and didn't want to fraternize with Witches still. She couldn't bring herself to drive such a stake into Amon's heart; she knew such a thing would only drive him further away from her, when what she really needed to do was to bind him closer. Needed to do, she wondered, or wanted to do? It didn't matter now, her plan was in action. She couldn't go back.  
  
"Why?" she asked, benignly.  
  
"We can't trust anyone we don't know," Amon replied simply, as if that explained it all. What Robin had heard underneath his statement were the words We can't trust any other Witches. She shifted her meager weight on her feet, hands wrapping around the door as she peered further into the room. "They need me. I'm meant to gather them together—my powers are growing, Amon. Even you notice that."  
  
She could almost feel him stiffen. "Newfound power can lead to foolishness in inexperienced hands." Silence. "I don't think that warrants my explanation."  
  
And you, Amon? What about your powers? You speak as if you had complete mastery over them, when in actuality, I had more control over my own powers at age twelve than you do now. Robin bit her lip, steeled herself, and gripped the heavy wooden door so tightly she thought that it would start to give her splinters. This, she knew, was where this particular scenario would differ from all the others. In all the others, she'd grown tired of butting her head against Amon's stone wall of immovable stubbornness and slunk off, quietly admitting defeat. In this scenario, she was going to do something she'd never done before.  
  
"My statement doesn't either, then," she said quietly, watching the unmoving form of Amon closely, her heart pounding. Everything was riding on her next statement. "If you won't go with me, then I'll go by myself." Time stood still as she waited, fear looming large in her heart as she waited on a reaction from Amon. Robin feared that he would simply do nothing, he would let her walk out of his care without a second thought—she needed him. She wasn't an idiot. She knew that she wouldn't survive long without him if SOLOMON wanted her dead; at least until her powers manifested themselves completely, but who knew how long that would be? She could hold her own against attackers within reason, but who knew what SOLOMON would throw at her, and at what levels? And who knew what the final manifestation of her powers would even be, if they would even be completely useful? She knew that as a fifteen year old girl, life alone would be infinitely difficult, if not impossible. She had money of her own, yes; funds earned from her short stint with STN-J, evacuated out of Japanese bank accounts into German and American ones by Amon (with Nagira's help) shortly after their exodus from Japan. But still...she didn't even want to think of all the dangers and difficulties life would afford her without Amon around.  
  
Plus, she wanted to be near him. Frantically Robin began to doubt her ability to be able to leave him behind, to pretend he never existed. She needed Amon, in more ways than one, and she had thought—had thought—that perhaps he had needed her, just a little bit, maybe. She'd played her trump card. Now all there was to do was wait and see how he reacted; hopefully, she hadn't shown her hand in vain.  
  
Suddenly, Amon sat up quickly in the darkness, staring towards the light. She couldn't see his gaze, but she could feel it, as well as the radiation of an element and an emotion that was a mystery to her. She only felt the power of something radiating outward from him, from within the room, in the darkness. She shivered.  
  
"What?" he asked, sounding startled—at least, as startled as she'd heard him sound in eons. "Are you mad, Robin? Have you gone mad?"  
  
She paused, thinking out her next words. She couldn't tell if he was angry, hurt, confused, or what. He was, as usual, simply being Amon. "I have a duty, Amon," she replied calmly, a lot more calmly than she felt on the inside. "A calling, if you want to name it that. I can't run forever. My—our—people need me. I need to find them." To what purpose, she didn't know, for what ends, with what results...she didn't know that either. All she knew is that she couldn't ignore the feeling that seemed to spread throughout her body like a dull ache, a pull, a summon—the others were calling her, and she was calling to them. She had to make Amon see this. She often couldn't understand why he wouldn't—after all, he was one of them now.  
  
"And what will you do, Mahatma Gandhi of Craft-users? Mother Teresa of the Witches? Rally an army the likes of which the world has never seen? Take down SOLOMON world-wide?" He sounded irritated and incredulous, as if he couldn't believe he was even having the conversation. "Expose yourself unnecessarily and get killed?"  
  
She frowned. "You're not being fair. You're not even listening."  
  
Shuffling, rustling; the dark form of Amon rose from the bed and stalked purposefully towards the door, brushing past Robin coldly, angrily. "I am listening. So far I haven't heard one good, concrete reason why you feel like you've got to do this."  
  
Robin turned to face him as he walked out into the middle of the room, stopping, hands folded over his chest. She continued to cling to the door, her lifeline, her solid support. "I guess...I guess I don't have one. Instinct, maybe."  
  
Amon turned towards her then, arms still folded over his chest, expression stony. His eyes, though, flashed intensely with a myriad of emotions. "Instinct." He spat the word out, acidly. Robin said nothing. "No. I won't allow you to leave."  
  
She stared back at him, evenly, when really all she wanted to do was drop to the ground crying, spent and exhausted. Robin didn't want to fight with Amon, she didn't want for any of what was happening to be happening—but she didn't see any other way. "You can't stop me," she replied, in a tone so quiet and meek that she wondered if he'd even been able to hear her. "I..." she forced herself to look away, not able to look him in the eyes during what she was going to say next. "I may," she began, barely above a whisper, "have outgrown my need for a warder."  
  
"Oh, really." Amon was silent for a long measure of time, and Robin still could not bring herself to look at him, instead staring down at the intricate patterns on the thick rug. She heard him make a noise that sounded like a joyless chuckle, and then: "Well, if you don't need me any longer, Robin, by all means go. Go. But I wash my hands of this, Robin. If you go from me you go from me voluntarily, knowing the dangers. I offered you protection and you willingly denied it. Everything I have done, I have done only because it is the best I know how. I mean you no ill will." He paused. "If you go from me and lose yourself somewhere along the way, my promise from before stands true still. I will find you, and I will Hunt you."  
  
More silence. A heavy sigh from Amon. Robin could feel her resolve running out of her in invisible rivers.  
  
"But at least acknowledge that you go knowing the dangers. At least...spare my conscience some of the guilt for letting you do this."  
  
Robin's mind was reeling; she'd made her stand, but now it was as if she couldn't back out of it. No, no, no no no no NO, her mind screeched, panicked. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. It was a bluff. Why, oh why, Amon, must you always be so stubborn? She'd wounded his pride, and hurt him, that was very obvious to her. It was there, in his voice, subtly. Ungratefully she'd turned on him and scorned his help when he'd given up his whole life, his whole world to help her—when by all accounts it would have been much easier for him to just ignore what he was ordered to ignore, on that day oh so long ago in Japan. Instead, he'd come to her aid, saved her life and figuratively sacrificed his own in the process. This, she thought bitterly, is how I thank him?  
  
"I'm...sorry I disturbed your sleep," Robin murmured instead of anything she'd really wanted to say, and still without looking at him, walked hurriedly to her end of the flat, closing the door to the bedroom that was hers behind her with a gentle click. Once on the other side, safe in her room, she let her façade crumble, slinking down to the ground in mute shock. That was it. It was over.  
  
What had she done?  
  
She was scared, terrified; torn between betraying the one person she knew would never, ever betray her and the insistent call of her destiny—whatever it was, whatever it would bring her, she knew not. She knew that her own fate and Amon's had ceased to be separate, long ago—and yet, somehow, it seemed to Robin as if she'd succeeded in knotting or twisting their path somehow. It was wrong, all wrong, something had not gone right, nothing had worked as planned.  
  
What had she done?  
  
Standing quickly, Robin yanked open the door and hurried out into the sitting room, where she saw Amon sitting in the loveseat that she herself had been sitting on not too long ago, head turned towards the windows, staring out at the new day. He did not acknowledge her emergence into the room. Without a second thought, she hurried over to where he sat and wrapped her arms around his neck from behind him, crushing her face into his neck and the thickness of his hair, crying. He did not jump, or have any sort of startled reaction—Robin hadn't been expecting him to, over the history of their fugitive life together she had hugged him or clung to him on a few separate occasions—but she had been expecting him to angrily push her away, to ignore her, or at the very least be somewhat bewildered (as he had been on past occasions), but he did none of those things.  
  
"I thought you were leaving," he said, flatly, distantly. Her tears continued to flow into his hair, down his neck, down over his shoulder. "Robin—"  
  
"I can't," she sobbed miserably, voice muffled, body shaking. "And you know I can't! I—I didn't mean what I said, Amon."  
  
He sighed heavily, his face still turned towards the windows. Firmly, reassuringly, he brought up a hand and held onto one of her arms where it wrapped around him, clinging. "About finding others?"  
  
"About leaving," she replied tearfully. "About not needing you. I...I can't do it without you. I owe you my life."  
  
"You owe me nothing," he correctly in a low, soothing tone. "It was my decision."  
  
She sniffled against his shoulder, and he sighed again, his hand loosening and tightening around her arm, as if to remind her that he was still there, that she hadn't left. "I still need a warder," Robin admitted softly, moving her head slightly; she could feel strands of Amon's hair clinging to the wetness on her face. He was silent, and she twisted her head enough to look next to her at the profile of his face, still gazing out the window. His jaw twitched slightly once, twice.  
  
"I still need a ward," he answered, his voice even, always even. Robin loosed a small noise of relief, lifting her head slightly and pressing her cheek against the top of his head, grateful for his devotion and acceptance of her sudden switch in mindset. After all, Robin thought, dryly, isn't changing one's mind all the time what being a teenager is about? "I'll go where you go. Even," here he paused, "especially even if I don't agree with it."  
  
Relief and joy mixed together flooded through Robin, her very soul lifting with the implications of his words, his agreement to come with her, to help her with her search and whatever it may find. She followed his gaze out the window to the bright new day, yellow light bathing the awakening city in warmth and happiness. Dawn. Dawn seemed to be her time. "It's time, Amon," she whispered against his hair, her voice carrying a note of hope. "It's time for us to find the others."  
  
His eyes closed and his hand on her arm tightened gently and did not loosen.  
  
"I will follow you," he said, quietly, "especially since I still believe that you are making a mistake."  
  
Robin said nothing to his remark at first, simply leaned over him with her cheek to his hair, basking in the contact. She didn't understand his overwhelming aversion to seeking out other witches, not at all. "Perhaps we'll encounter people who can tell you more about your Craft. There must be others like you out there. And who knows?" she said, smiling slightly. "Maybe I will raise an army the likes of which humanity has never seen. Maybe I will take down SOLOMON. Maybe I'll find out more about Toudou's—research." To her dismay, Amon's large, rough hand slid away from her arm, and he leaned forward slightly, indicating that he wished to stand. Robin let her arms slide and disengage from around his neck and shoulders, and he rose, turning to her with a blank, vaguely displeased look. The look in his eyes almost made Robin guilty enough to bow to his wishes to remain separate from society—almost.  
  
"You have gone mad," he said, mirthlessly. He sucked in a deep breath. "I'll think on how to deal with your insanity in my sleep." Turning, he began to return to his room, an aura of resigned defeat glaring about him like a corona. "You are to stay here while I'm sleeping. Don't start trying to take over the world until I wake up. Understood?"  
  
"Yes," the young witch conceded; she could at least give him that small comfort, knowing where she was. "Sleep well," she called softly as Amon entered his room; his only response was a sound that sounded highly akin to a sardonic little chuckle. 


	3. Young Liars

"Aching bones on sleepless bed They toss and turn and roll away From words unsaid" --TV on the Radio, "Don't Love You"  
  
His head ached. It often did.  
  
The watery light of the day shone down on the narrow streets as the taxi Amon and Robin rode in the back of poked along through traffic, both human and vehicular. The weather had abruptly taken a turn for the worse the last few days, and had been very foggy, cold, and damp. The weak sunlight that was trying its hardest to filter through the cloud-cover was the brightest light Amsterdam had seen in at least two days. The wind was still bitingly cold, and the air chilled, and he and Robin were dressed accordingly. His eyes flicked over to the girl on the other side of the backseat, briefly; she was engrossed with toying with the end of her scarf, staring out the window, wide-eyed. She hadn't even noticed that he'd looked at her.  
  
She often didn't. Amon prided himself on being rather adept at watching people without their knowing it. His eyes slid back to the window on his side, watching the buildings and people pass by, the car bumping along the rough, narrow road. It wasn't very bright outside, but it seemed that way to Amon. For all his eyes were concerned, the sun might as well have been shining full force, not a cloud in the sky. The red sweater of a random pedestrian caused something behind his eyes, deep in his brain, to twinge a bit, and he closed his eyes briefly, rubbing at his temple with a hand. When he opened his eyes again, the outside world looked a bit dimmer, a bit foggier—the way it was supposed to look. An invisible weight upon his shoulders let him know that Robin was looking at him, and he turned and looked back, unflinchingly. As it often happened, she seemed shocked that he'd turned to look at her right then and turned down the intensity of her gaze.  
  
"Yes?" he asked, expectantly. That she would look at him without a reason, simply to look at him, stirred thoughts in his head that did not need to be stirred. Therefore, he always made her have a reason by way of inquiry.  
  
"Are...you alright?" Robin asked him, quietly. Keeping his face neutral, he nodded. Even if he wasn't, he still would have nodded.  
  
Once she'd looked away, back out the window, Amon allowed his gaze to wander back to the strange, half-attentive, half-daydreaming position it'd been in before he felt her eyes upon him. He seemed to do that a lot, recently, and it frustrated him; allow his eyes to become unfocussed, unsharpened...vapid. It was as if, sometimes, he never fully awoke in the mornings when he rose from his bed—as if the dreams kept going, the hazy feeling of morning sticking with him throughout the whole day.  
  
His head hurt, terribly. Instead of chasing the same old thoughts around and around until he was out of breath from it, Amon instead settled for gazing out the window, and letting the symphony of the moving parts of the car's engine blank out most of his hearing.  
  
Funny that he could term a car's parts working together a symphony, nowadays.  
  
What else was one supposed to call it when one could hear every single little part working; clinking or grinding, pumping or firing?  
  
The cab pulled up in front of the building that contained the flat that Robin and he had most recently been occupying. As Robin exited the small, black, somewhat squat car, Amon eyed the driver's fare-screen and dug a bit more than the actual amount out of his billfold—a billfold now empty of mostly anything that made him a real person, save money and whatever ID he thought he'd need. After paying and tipping the driver, Amon exited the car himself to find Robin awaiting him on the sidewalk, her face already turning slightly pink in the nose and cheeks due to the cold wind. They looked at each other once, briefly; as if to say 'let's go inside', and then they both turned, heading up the stone steps into the building.  
  
Once inside their quarters, Robin trotted off towards her own room, unwinding her scarf from around her thin neck as she went, humming slightly. Amon watched her go for a moment, inwardly amused—it seemed all he had to do to make her inordinately happy for a day or so was take her out to eat somewhere. He'd been around her long enough to discern that food was one of Robin's chief pleasures in life, not that she ate it in vast amounts, but that she always liked to try something new and different. Her palate was varied and easy to please, and going out for a meal instead of ordering one in or roughing it with base home-cooking always seemed to lift her spirits.  
  
Within a moment, Amon turned and walked to his own room, shedding his coat, and then shedding his jacket and the holster he wore about his torso. From a table near him, he grabbed his cell phone, and then flipped open a laptop that was lying on the table as well. One end of a cord went into the bottom of the phone, and the other end of the cord, which resembled a disk, plugged into the laptop's disk drive. The drive chattered a few times, and Amon began to dial once the chattering had stopped.  
  
A new phone number, every time. Scramblers were good things.  
  
Once the other line had started ringing, Amon pulled the phone loose from the cord, and sat down in a chair at the table, holding the phone to his ear with one hand and pushing the laptop about slightly with the other. After about four rings, the other line was answered. "Nagira Law Offices," a busy, prim sounding female voice on the other end greeted. "How may I help you?"  
  
"Mika." Amon paused. He didn't need to say anything by way of introduction, she'd know full well from the sound of his voice who it was. "Put Nagira on the phone, if he's there."  
  
"Yes." A click, silence. He was on hold. Five seconds later the phone was picked up again, and the first human sound heard was a heavy exhalation—presumably, the smoke from a cigarette. "How're the plans for world domination coming?" Nagira's voice asked from the other end of the line, sounding dryly amused, as he always did. Amon had talked with his half-brother shortly after Robin's revelation (and threat) not too long ago, and had expressed nothing but quiet amusement about it. Amon couldn't tell what Nagira was really thinking, which kind of irritated him—but then again, Amon supposed that was how people felt about him, when he thought about it.  
  
"What've you heard?" he asked instead of answering Nagira's question. Another heavy exhalation came from Nagira, and Amon settled back in his chair.  
  
"It's been pretty quiet for a long time now, buddy," his older half-brother replied, and Amon could almost hear Nagira shrug. "I've been telling you that for a while. I think SOLOMON's starting to lose heart. You guys have been keeping yourself pretty well hidden, except for those couple run-ins with Hunters in the very beginning. You'd have to do something real—and I mean real—dumb for SOLOMON to catch onto you two."  
  
Amon allowed himself a grim little smile. "Like trying to take over the world? Is that really dumb enough?"  
  
Nagira laughed, his voice hollow and tinny through the phone. "Yeah. Yeah. That sounds like it'd clinch it. Has little Robin given up any more of her instinctual plan to find and form some sort of bond with others?"  
  
Amon rolled his eyes up at the ceiling, staring upwards blankly as he spoke. "No. I'm still not really sure why she wants to do this. I don't, that's a fact."  
  
More laughter. "I think," Nagira said, a smirk audible through his voice, "that maybe she's lonely."  
  
"I see," Amon replied, without much thought. Of course she was probably lonely. They lived a life that no longer existed. They were like untouchables. They came and went without a trace. They talked to no one, and saw no one. She was a fifteen year old girl—of course she was lonely.  
  
"Maybe," the phone-voice hazarded, still smirking, "you should be nicer to her."  
  
Amon frowned, catching the underlying insinuation in his brother's voice. "Perhaps I should just get her thinking more on what this plan of hers is. That'll occupy her."  
  
There was a typical, smug, Nagira-brand silence that always seemed to say: 'Well, if that's what you think.' As Amon turned his head downwards and fixed his gaze on the door as a light knock issued forth from it, and Robin's head poked in slightly, Nagira resumed speaking. "Sure, sure. Whatever you think is best, buddy. After all, you should know her best." Amon watched Robin as she hesitantly entered the room, eyeing the phone with a kind of excited questioning, even though she almost certainly knew who it was. It was hardly ever anyone but Nagira.  
  
He watched the way Robin's pink lips turned upwards into a smile, curving gracefully, and quite suddenly handed the phone out to her. "It's Nagira. You talk to him for a bit. He is, as ever, driving me insane."  
  
Robin took the phone from him eagerly, and almost immediately she and his brother fell into conversation. Robin strolled off to a corner of the room, near the drawn draperies of a window, and sat down on the window seat, talking all the while in her quiet little way. Amon listened to her and thought, somewhat warily, somewhere within that girl there is some sort of grandiose idea.  
  
There was, somewhere. He knew there had to be. She wouldn't be acting this way, otherwise. She wouldn't have seemed so...powerful, otherwise. Robin's whole being seemed to tremble, the last few days, as if she were on the precipice of some giant discovery, some great adventure—it seemed to Amon as if she'd completely forgotten, for the time being, that they were still in danger of losing their lives every day. However, she seemed happy and hale, and Amon's mind was having trouble deciding whether that was a good thing out of sheer principle, or if it was a bad thing due to the cause of the happiness.  
  
Or maybe it was just that he wasn't used to waiting for Robin to make a decision as to their immediate—and long-term—future. He looked over his shoulder at her, suddenly, and watched her talking on the phone. She managed to be subdued and animated at the same time, unearthly; one of her many magic tricks.  
  
She had many, many more, much to his frustration.  
  
A few minutes later she rose from her seat and walked back over to Amon, handing him the phone with a smile. He took it and placed it back up to his ear as Robin sat down in the other free chair at the table, her green eyes staring down at the tabletop. "Nagira," was all Amon said by way of re-greeting his brother.  
  
"I'll be calling you again in the next few days. Little Robin has deployed me on a task for you two," Nagira replied, and Amon's brows furrowed.  
  
"A task?" he asked, in semi-confusion.  
  
"An information task, what else?" was the amused reply. "I'm going to see what I can dig up all the way from Japan, over here, and work my contacts and see what they can work their contacts for and find out." A laugh, deep and scratchy. Too many cigarettes, possibly? "She's going right after the big fish, Amon. She wants to find the witches in Europe—you know, like the big cheeses. Diplomatic ties, or something like that."  
  
"I see."  
  
"She wants you guys to get in good with someone who's got some measure of power on the Continent over there—so that way, at least, you guys are kind of safe. You of all people should know that it's not pretty when witches fight. I'm gonna see what I can dig up, okay?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Always a man of many words, Amon. Until then, keep yourselves well—and alive, above all. I'll talk to you in a few days, buddy."  
  
Amon sighed, wondering what exactly Robin and Nagira were going to drag him into. "You too. Yeah."  
  
"Adios," Nagira said, and Amon stared down at his phone for a moment before flipping it closed, setting it on the tabletop. He stared at it for a moment, his mind digesting several different things at once. First and foremost, a large part of his brain told him that he should convince Robin to cease this nonsense, to worry more about preserving her own life than scampering about after witches who might or might not be around, and who might or might not be entirely friendly towards them—they were ex-Hunters, after all. He knew his words would be wasted breath, however.  
  
The phone suddenly seemed to shine before him, the room infinitely brighter; his skin tingled, he was not only distinctly aware of his own heartbeat and breathing, he could hear Robin's heartbeat, hard and steady, like a drum. Briefly he closed his eyes, pressing them together tightly with a slight scowl, willing his mind to go as blank as humanly possible. Imagining an endless void was a lot more difficult than one would have thought. When he opened his eyes two seconds later the phone still seemed unusually glinty, and the colours of the room too bright to be normal, but his own heartbeat and Robin's had faded into nothingness.  
  
"You...still think I'm doing the wrong thing, don't you?" she queried him suddenly, looking concerned. He looked over at her, disturbed and awed at how green her eyes really could be, when he looked at them, and blinked. She had three or four very, very faint freckles on either cheek, he noticed. They probably would have been very difficult to notice, but due to the fact that his Craft enjoyed randomly acting up from time to time, he saw them then with little to no effort at all.  
  
Amon wasn't going to lie to her. "Yes." He held her gaze meaninglyfully. "I do."  
  
She blinked back at him, all the different hues of green and facets of her eyes twinkling in the lamplight. "I can't be afraid forever." Robin paused, her eyes searching some spot on the wall, on the draperies over Amon's shoulder. Amon's line of sight did not follow hers, instead, it remained riveted to her face. "I was her hope, Amon. 'Hope'."  
  
If he'd had a penny for every time she'd said that to him in the last few months, he would have been a far richer man. That phrase, that woman Maria's—her mother's—words seemed to be like a lifeline to Robin, the thing she clung to in order to make sense of her life, some sort of justification for why she lived. He wasn't sure if he believed in all he'd seen in that basement office at Factory that day so long ago—all of Toudou's scientific last words—but somewhere in the mess of words, whether or not all of it was true or not, was the puzzle piece that was Robin's destiny. How or where it fit into the grand scheme of things was anyone's guess. Furthermore, he often wondered where his own piece fit in.  
  
Amon often had nightmares about being a child, confronting his mother as she stood high above him, unreachable; in her hand, she held a single puzzle piece just out of his reach. No matter how he reached for it or grabbed, he could never obtain it. Then, his mother would fade away, leaving him alone, taking the puzzle piece—his destiny—with her.  
  
"Just like you do things because you feel like you have to, or because you feel that they're the best thing for you to do," Robin went on, her eyes still fixed on that mysterious spot, as if she were seeing someone over his shoulder that was telling her what to say, "I have to act that way, too. I understand that you're angry with this, my decision, with...me..." She trailed off, not finishing her sentence, but the unspoken words hung there in the air, between them:  
  
But how long are you going to go on being angry?  
  
They'd been around each other almost constantly for months, now, and the depth of their communication without using any words at all had actually begun to frighten Amon, a bit. He hadn't ever been that close with any woman (save perhaps his mother, years and years ago before he could really remember it that well, anyway)—let alone a fifteen year old girl—in his entire life, to be able to convey entire sentences, entire emotions in a single look. What frightened him even more was his ability to read her without a word being spoken, as well.  
  
Her eyes slid down from the spot they'd been looking at, and settled on his own for a moment, briefly; then, nervously, they moved down and settled on the tabletop again. The same words, the point more driven home by eye contact: how long are you going to go on being angry?  
  
His gaze was forcedly stoic as he looked at her. Amon's pride, for whatever reason, would not let his face show the message he wanted to convey to her, that he knew he should have conveyed to her: I'm sorry.  
  
Thumping. Heavy thumping. It sounded like someone walking around out in the main sitting room, and Robin was awake with a jerk, sliding out of bed, her body low to the ground, heart pounding. More thumping, a dull thud. Her mouth went dry with a part fear, a part anxiety, a part Craft. She knew, full of dread, that Amon was never that loud at night. Out of respect for her sleep, he moved about almost silently to ensure that he did not awaken her while she slept. Something was not right. Hair hanging loose in front of her face, feet sliding silently along the carpet, she slowly and stealthily made her way to her bedroom door.  
  
Hand on the doorknob, she closed her eyes and tried to reach her mind out, to see if she could feel the presence of another witch—but her mind was so muddled with nervousness that it didn't really work very well, only made her head spin and swim a bit. Her hand on the doorknob began to turn slowly, biting her lower lip hard in anticipation and fear of what she might find on the other side of the door. Had she jinxed them? Had her hopes for SOLOMON's disappearance from their lives brought the organization back into them?  
  
Lips moving quickly in a silent prayer, she hoped that Amon was alright. She opened the door.  
  
The lights were on, and the room was startling cold, as if perhaps one of the windows were open—or, Robin thought with trepidation, broken open. Her hand sliding along the wall, she moved towards the corner that once she rounded, put her in the main sitting room. She heard the sound of something being knocked over; the telephone, perhaps. It wasn't something glass, but it wasn't something metal either. More than likely the telephone, from the sounds of it. Robin felt as if she had a pit of snakes in her stomach, and taking a deep breath, she rounded the corner, eyes wide and pupils dialated—every cell in her being supercharged, heated, ready to bring about a quick death to anyone who threatened herself or Amon.  
  
Instead, she saw nothing. Indeed one of the windows was open, the curtain fluttering with the cool night air flowing into the room. The sounds of something being dragged across the carpet, and Robin's already sick heart became sicker when she thought of what she could find on the other side of the loveseat, on the ground. Images of blood and gore flashed into her head uncontrollably, but she forced herself to start walking, numbly, towards the loveseat.  
  
"Robin." The sound of Amon's voice from the floor on the other side of the piece of furniture nearly scared her out of her wits, but made her hurry around to the other side, only to find Amon half-sitting, half-slumping against the chair. Her brows knitted together, deep in confusion and concern, and then she dropped to her knees beside him, reaching out to him slightly but not wanting to touch him. "I woke you up."  
  
"Amon?" she queried, gazing into his face, his somewhat squinted eyes, as they darted about everywhere and settled on nothing in particular. When he did not reply, her concern heightened to fever pitch. "Amon?" she tried again, a bit more frantically, her voice higher in pitch. His response was to wince and attempt to scoot away from her some, face contorted as if he were in pain. Somewhat clumsily, he almost fell over onto his side completely, and Robin noticed that the telephone had been knocked over; presumably by him.  
  
Realization sunk in suddenly, and Robin frowned helplessly. Amon's Craft. This had happened before, while they were in New York—or perhaps it was somewhere in California, Robin couldn't remember. Somewhere, the two of them lost in America. He'd awoken, in the middle of the night, heart pumping, head pounding, sight blinding him, hearing deafening him, sense of touch overly sensitive to everything. It seemed as if, sometimes, Amon's Craft reeled out of control, rendering him completely incapacitated for minutes at a time. Bewildered, Robin tentatively reached out a hand to lay it on her ex-partner's shoulder, in an attempt to help him sit upright.  
  
"Don't!" he barked at her, sharply, and she jerked her hand back, cowed, and he winced at the sound of his own words, presumably echoing in his own skull. Finally pulling himself up into what could be called a sitting position against the loveseat, Amon pressed his eyes shut forcefully, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to block out the world. They sat there like that in complete silence for what could have been five or ten minutes; Robin watching on in quiet despair, Amon blocking out the world, sweat beading on his forehead.  
  
After what seemed like an eternity (far too long for Robin), his eyes opened again and she leaned forward immediately and uncontrollably, her own eyes searching the familiar charcoal-grey depths from a distance, looking for...something, anything out of the ordinary, anything to give cause for alarm. She saw nothing, only fatigue and an odd look of...thankfulness? Relief? "Are you going to be alright?" she asked, quietly, unsure as to whether or not he would snap at her again. Amon, as far as his Craft was concerned, was a bundled mass of exposed nerves. One verbal misstep and his mood would be ruined for the rest of the day.  
  
"Yes." Just like that at least his voice sounded composed, again. Slowly he turned and pulled himself to his feet, looking about himself, displaced, before somewhat haltingly picking up the over-ended telephone. Robin looked up at him from the floor for a moment before she stood herself, still watching him.  
  
"Amon, what happened?" she asked, confused. "I woke up because I heard...well, it sounded like someone was dragging something across the floor."  
  
He sat down on the loveseat, large hands linked together, elbows resting on his knees. Robin watched the muscles of his shoulders move under his shirt and forced herself to look, instead, at the crown of his head, his glossy black hair. "I was asleep," he began incredulously, and Robin made a little face of disbelief.  
  
"You were asleep?" she asked, yet more confused. "You don't sleep—"  
  
"—at night anymore, I know. I thought so, too. I fell asleep." He shrugged with his eyebrows, slightly. "I was sleeping, and then I was dreaming, and then...I woke up, and everything was...blinding. Bright. White. I couldn't hear, I couldn't see. It felt as if I was getting ready to have a heart attack." Here Amon paused, looking at some invisible point in front of him, as if he was trying to compose his thoughts, put something into words. "I tried to get up, and I...lost my balance." He fell silent. That, apparently, was the end of his explanation. It didn't matter, Robin had heard the longer, more detailed explanation before, the first time this had occurred. Her only explanation as to why Amon had told her so much that time around was that he himself was frightened and bewildered by what had happened to him. This time, it seemed as if he was more...embarrassed than anything else.  
  
She looked down at him, sitting there upon the loveseat. Her hands itched to do nothing more than to take his head in them and hold it to her stomach, protectively; to stroke his long hair and feel his arms wrap around her. She bit her lip. "What were you dreaming?" she asked, even though she was fairly certain she wouldn't get an answer.  
  
"My mother," he replied almost instantly, to her great shock. Immediately Robin was extra silent, hoping her silence would coax him into saying something else as it did, sometimes. Amon hardly ever—almost never—mentioned his mother. To Robin she seemed to be some impossibly sad, tragic figure in Amon's past, one that he both missed and loathed terribly. She couldn't help but be curious about the powerful woman who was half of Amon, the woman whose blood made Amon what he was, the woman who lent half of her personality and features to her son. "I was dreaming about my mother," he said, almost as if he was back in the dream. His voice sounded far away and about as lost in a daydream as Robin had ever heard it. It was as if the room surrounding them, and she herself, as well, had disappeared in Amon's eyes.  
  
He looked...peaceful.  
  
"A good dream, then?" Robin said, hopefully. His face was so wistful, so...  
  
"No, not particularly," he replied, which semi-startled Robin. "But not horrible, either. It was one of those dreams...that makes one uneasy, but one's not sure why. But nothing terrible at all happened in the dream." Suddenly his face was its normal self again, all hard lines and angles, all frowns and furrowed brows. "It wasn't one of the nightmares." Silence loomed over them again; the man, lost in thought, the girl, amazed he was talking so much.  
  
The fact that their conversation, considering that it was all Amon- centered, had even gotten this far was a miracle, and Robin was desperately aware of this fact. Perhaps a bit greedily (even though she knew it couldn't possibly be harming him any) she wanted him to keep talking, wanted to hear about the unfamiliar inner workings of his mind. "Nightmares?" she asked, almost breathlessly, disbelieving.  
  
Eyes hard and unreadable, he looked up at her after her one-worded question, and set his jaw, as if determined to do something. "It's late," he said, and any hope in Robin's heart that Amon would have kept talking was instantly crushed. It was, apparently, time for him to put the mask back on. "So late that it's early, as a matter of fact. You should go along back to bed. I'm sorry for having awoken you." His words were so curt, so flat, so perfectly Amon—it all sounded like lines from a well- rehearsed play, one that he and Robin seemed to play through every day; a string of endless dress rehearsals.  
  
She blinked. His removal and re-application of the mask had been so quick, so flawless, that it was getting hard to tell if he even knew that he was doing it anymore. "But, Amon—"she began, and his grey eyes hardened even more. It wasn't as if he was angry with her, but rather instead angry with himself. "—are you—" She attempted to continue regardless of his dangerous look, but he stopped her.  
  
"It's late. People talk all sort of foolishness at this hour." He stared her down, and she found she could not defy him. Those words had been his way of saying, in no uncertain terms: back off.  
  
Robin began to head back for her room, staring down at her feet and legs as she walked, both of which seemed impossibly thin and white in the artificial light of the room. As she reached her door, she cast one more glance back to Amon, who was still sitting on the loveseat, apparently waiting for her to be a good little girl, to go back into her room, and to go to sleep.  
  
"Maybe," Robin began, pausing with her hand on the door frame, looking back out at the back of Amon's head, "maybe Nagira will call tomorrow with some information."  
  
"Possibly," he replied, and then turned his head, looking back at her. His eyes flicked up and down her figure once, which caused the snakes-in-her- stomach-feeling again—he'd performed such maneuvers with his eyes before, but that didn't mean that Robin knew any more of what he was thinking when he did them—and then he locked her eyes with his own, as he often did.  
  
She had the feeling that he knew that his words carried much more potency if he had her to where she couldn't look away when he said them.  
  
"Go to sleep now, Robin," he murmured, and she nodded, entering her room, closing the door behind her. 


	4. Funny Time of Year

Fog hung in the air like a phantom, cigarette smoke in an enclosed space, a guest that'd overstayed his welcome but still refused to leave.  It was cold, but not too cold, and there was no wind.  

Perfect weather for hanging out the window.

People plodded along through the soup-fog below the third story window, dark figures in a hazy world.  Robin wondered, idly, if they could even see her hovering above them, watching them like some sort of child watching for her parents to arrive home.  In the flat behind her, Robin figured Amon was still in his room, interacting with his laptop as he did most of the time.  Fleetingly, bitterly, she figured that the piece of electronic equipment and Amon got along better than herself and Amon did.  Amon always had been one for his gadgets.  He seemed to acquire new ones all the time.  It made Robin feel like she was living in an epic noir spy movie, sometimes.  Maybe she was.  She couldn't really tell, anymore.

A thick, old, leather-bound book sat overturned, in stasis on her bed in the room behind her, waiting for its reader to return.  It was a 'historical' account of witches and witchcraft printed sometime in the early 1800's, picked up for relatively cheap at a hole-in-the-wall antique bookstore in downtown Brussels some time ago.  It was printed in German, and Robin had found it quite difficult to read at first, her German teachings coming back to her in bits and pieces.  Now she found she could read through it with greater ease, even though sometimes phrases and words eluded her, and caused her to seek out Amon's help or to utilize the internet to help her along.  She wasn't sure why she kept buying and reading all the ridiculous books of the lore and 'histories' of witchcraft; maybe it was because she was always hoping that something would jump out at her, a sign, a key, a truth.  It hadn't happened yet—but at least reading gave her something to do to pass the time.

Grey-sweater clad arms dangled back and forth in her vision; her own arms, swinging slightly as she leaned over the window frame and stared down into the street below.  One arm reached up and a hand scratched lightly at her scalp, her golden-ginger hair pinned back into something resembling a messy twist of a bun, ends sticking out everywhere and loops hanging here and there.  At her own realization and Amon's suggestion, she'd mostly given up on her old hairstyle due to its telltale quality.  Unfortunately, Robin didn't know what else to do with her hair, really, so more oft than not it ended up getting pinned back in whatever manner kept it back.  

Right then at that moment, the book, German, her sweater, Amon, her hair—none of those was on her mind.  She was lost in thought about what she was going to do, where she was going to go, how she was going to proceed.  She was laying plans, staring at them, crumpling them up and relaying them again in her mind.  The fog-muted world around her seemed to be seeping into her brain, somewhat preventing her from thinking properly—or perhaps it was the fact that she still wasn't too sure of what she was doing that was preventing her from thinking properly.  

From within the flat, Amon sneezed.  It sounded more like a roar.  He sneezed very loudly, always.  Robin already knew this.  One came to know these things about a person when they spent every day, day in and day out with that person.  Trivial little things; living with someone didn't necessarily mean that you learned any more about what made them tick.  This was very true for Robin and Amon.

First and foremost was to wait for word from Nagira; Robin knew this, too.  She had her _reaching_ power, but it was still too vague, really, to be much of a help in finding others.  And plus, trying to find them on her own without any information, any recommendations, could possibly lead them right into the open, waiting arms of SOLOMON.  She was worried that Nagira wouldn't be able to come through with any information for her and Amon, but she assured herself that her worries were unfounded—natural—but unfounded.  Nagira knew everyone.  Nagira knew how to find anything, anyone, anywhere.  If she'd handed him a cinderblock and a gladiola, Nagira would have hidden them behind his back and when he pulled them out again, they would have been turned into a treasure map where the buried treasure was actually a bunch of witches.  

Once she'd gotten information from Nagira, she and Amon were obviously going to have to sit down and _discuss_ what they were going to do, where they were going to go, what kind of risks they were willing to take.  Rather, what kind of risks _he_ was willing to let them take.  Although, admittedly, Robin knew, Amon's sense of danger and gut-instinct were uncanny (a holdover from Hunter days, in all likelihood).  He'd caved to letting her start to search for other witches, which showed that he might not have agreed with it, might have disliked it—but didn't deem it one hundred percent life-threatening.  The young Eve of the Witches had learned to trust her warden's instinct when it came to keeping their hearts beating.  It hadn't been wrong yet; they were still alive, after all.  She also knew that her darker half was much better at logistics and actual _planning_, it seemed that he had more of a head for formats and the business-end of things than she did.  

After they'd thought up a comprehensive game plan, then they'd go about the business of perhaps tentatively making contact with the other witches, if had been decided that it was at least relatively safe to do so.  Robin was powerful; she had come to terms with that fact, and the fact that she was only going to get even more powerful as time wore on (after all, it was what she had been scientifically crafted to do)—and she knew that Amon was going to grow into a powerful witch of his own right; despite his Craft getting the better of him often, she'd seen him exercise it in full-force several times before with incredible results.  However, all of this didn't change the fact that she had no idea how they would fare against an angry _group_ of potentially very powerful witches.  Also, something she was not used to having to do was having to actually _worry_ about Amon.  Even if she'd seen him use his powers before with favourable results (they'd actually saved their lives, a few times), she'd also seen those same powers render him mostly completely helpless for extended periods of time.  That worried her greatly.

She was jerked out of her thoughts suddenly by a group of people in the street below laughing loudly, their din permeating the fog-air.  They hollered at each other in Dutch, staggering along, weak with laughter, clutching at one another for support—Robin's Dutch was non-existent, but she thought that she caught the word 'Utrecht' in there.  She wondered what could possibly be so uproariously hilarious about a Dutch town made famous by a treaty.  Before she could fall back into her thoughts and plotting, a sound at her door made her sit up quickly and turn, almost succeeding in cracking her head a good one on the window as she did so.  "Yes?" she called, and her door opened, revealing Amon standing there, hand still on the door handle, dark and imposing in the doorway.

"What are you doing?" he asked her, shooting her a semi-perplexed look.  She realized that perhaps she _did_ look a little silly half-hanging out of the window.  Or perhaps the fog was creeping into her room.

She favoured him with a sheepish little smile.  "Just watching people.  Nothing special."

"Ah."  He entered the room suddenly, decisively, his hand finally leaving the door handle.  As he strode past her bed, he tossed a casual glance over at the book that sat upon it, then kept walking.  Obviously, he hadn't deemed it important enough to warrant his closer observation.  The window, however, had been deemed important enough.  He liked to watch people way more than she did, after all.  Robin had always noticed that he actually kind of excelled at it.  "Almost too foggy to be doing that, it seems."

Robin watched Amon's tall form walk up to the window next to the open one she was semi-leaning out of, stop in front of it, and fold his arms over his chest—another trademark Amon pastime.  "Yeah," she murmured.  Since it was already on her mind, she found herself asking about Nagira.

"No.  He hasn't contacted me yet."  Amon looked over at her with one of his eyebrows quirked up high; this was his primary way of showing subtle amusement.  "It's only been a little under a day since we talked to him, Robin."

"I know.  I was just wondering."  So she seemed a little anxious, so what?  After weeks of inactivity, Robin found herself excited to be doing something again even if it was potentially stupid and dangerous.  

Amon looked away, his eyebrow sinking back to its normal position as he gazed out the window.  "There was a small earthquake in Japan today," he said suddenly, as if he were actually _attempting_ to make conversation.  "I read about it in the news earlier."  He caught the beginnings of Robin's panicked, concerned look, and shook his head slightly.  "Nothing near anyone we know, anywhere near Tokyo.  It was near Takamatsu, not even on the mainland.  I wouldn't worry too much.  It was only a small earthquake, anyway."

"Oh."  Robin wondered why he would have even bothered to tell her about something like that.  It actually _did_ seem like Amon was trying to make conversation.  This was unusually chatty behaviour for him—to all of a sudden just come into her room and start talking to her without any kind of purpose in clear sight.  He seemed almost as if…perhaps he just wanted the _company_, which elated and amazed Robin at the same time.  She looked over at him and he looked over at her, and their peculiar form of wordless communication occurred—Robin had felt it.

His eyebrow climbed upwards, again.  However, this time, he seemed to be more amused with himself than with her.  "My twenty-sixth birthday was three days ago," he informed her casually, and chose not to react outwardly to Robin's look of subdued indignation.  "I suppose you're experiencing overwhelming, incredulous disbelief at my negligence to share this fact with you," he quipped, voice tinged with dry sarcasm.  

"Well, no, not really," Robin answered truthfully, still fixing him with her somewhat indignant look.  "It doesn't surprise me that you didn't tell me.  But then…why are you telling me now?"  A faint smile broke the gloom of her previous look.  "Feeling guilty?  Or perhaps just feeling old?"

"Possibly both."  Amon didn't seem at all ruffled by Robin's tentative jab at his inability to tell her _anything_.  "Maybe I just thought you should know.  Maybe I just thought I should remind myself."

"As if your memory was that terrible."  She wrinkled her nose a bit, not quite sure what his last statement had meant, really.  "If you'd told me, I could have wished you a happy birthday at the very least.  Maybe I would have even been able to go buy you a gift of some kind."

Amon was so amused by her comment about a gift that _both_ of his eyebrows arched up high, his face somehow magically expressing theatrical shock without having moved hardly at all.  His mask was flawless; amazing, morphing, adaptable.  "And what, if you don't mind me asking, would you have bought for me?"

Her lips pursed in thought.  He'd caught her off balance with that one; she had no _clue_ what she would have bought Amon.  He'd never really outwardly expressed interest in _anything_.  She didn't know what he liked or disliked, what he considered amusing (besides her actions) or boring, or anything of that nature.  Robin's brain stalled.  "Um.  I guess I really don't know," she confessed, after a long moment of mind-spinning.  

Amon nodded at her in a very told-you-so sort of way.  "My point exactly.  There really wasn't much cause for me to inform you of my birthday."

Silence coated them like the fog coated the world outside.  Robin had thought it almost necessary to make a comment about how still, even if she hadn't gotten him a gift, she could have at least told him happy birthday—after all, most normal, civilized people who lived together informed each other of such things.  Not she and Amon, though, and she found herself almost commenting about that as well, but she figured it would either seem sort of bizarre and personal to Amon, or it would strike him as incredibly insignificant.  Suddenly she frowned, her eyebrows bunching together in disbelief.  "You're a _Libra_?" she said, her voice taking on a definite incredulous tone on the name of the Zodiac sign.  

"Yes, I am.  September 25th."  An extremely rare smirk appeared on Amon's face.  "My apple fell very, very far from the tree with that particular aspect of my personality."

"Just a bit, I think," Robin replied with her own brand of quiet sarcasm.  Amon was the most un-Libra Libra that she'd ever met in her life.  She was opening her mouth to say something else when Amon unexpectedly opened his.

"You're an Aquarius."  He sounded very sure of himself.  Robin gaped.  "How'd you know?" she asked.  "Did you know when my birthday is?"

"No," he replied, still sounding somewhat smug.  "I can just tell."  Again, before Robin could get words out of her open mouth, Amon beat her to the punch with something out of complete left-field: "We're going to the symphony tonight, even if it isn't particularly wise for us to do so.  If you get to take unnecessary risks with our lives, then so do I."

Robin blinked rapidly into space, her outward manifestation of complete and utter shock.  Lacking anything better to do, she leaned out the window somewhat again, the foggy air pressing against her face, ethereal.  "Um.  That sounds nice," she managed, finally, still a bit shocked.  Of course, she was undeniably pleased at getting to go out and about, but she was still battling the shock of the revelation.  New bit of information, one she immediately filed away in the file cabinet in her brain reserved for bits and pieces of Amon, later intended to be drawn together in a more complete picture: he obviously had some sort of mild interest in orchestras or classical music.  Her previous plotting and planning about finding her fellow witches was almost completely forgotten in the tidal wave of Amon's strange, uncharacteristic sociability.

He had not moved, save his head to look at her, since he'd entered the room.  "I've already taken care of the arrangements through the computer.  I was suddenly spurred to celebrate my birthday a bit late.  We'll go eat dinner somewhere beforehand."  This, too, was a shock to Robin.

_What have you done with the real Amon? _Her mind screeched, agape.  _You're not the real Amon.  You're some sort of strange replacement sent by space aliens.  _Biting her lip and remaining silent, leaning further out the window, her mind held a conversation with itself.  _Or perhaps this is more of what the real Amon is like, beneath the mask and the fifteen-feet-thick wall around him.  Confusing.  Can't he ever not be confusing?  Not be complex?  Not be a complete mystery?  Not be…completely him?_  Normally Amon had to be wheedled to death (in a quiet, Robin-like fashion) in order to get him to move about much in public, normally.  And now he was volunteering to go out?  She'd never figure the man out.

"I just wanted to let you know about all that," Amon said suddenly, turning on his heel and striding back towards the door of her room.  He didn't look back, even as Robin's perplexed and wondering eyes followed his impromptu departure.  "We'll be leaving at about five-thirty.  You have until then to continue spying on the Dutch, or practice falling out the window, or whatever it is exactly that you're doing."  With that rather strange comment, he opened the door and left, closing it almost soundlessly behind him.  

Robin exhaled heavily through her nose, trying to digest what exactly had just transpired.

Five-forty five found a tall, broad-shouldered figure and a smaller, wispy figure moving through the fog carefully.  It had intensified, the vapour, and cars and other pedestrians were moving along at a snail's pace.  Still no wind stirred the air in the slightest.

Robin snuck a glance over and up at Amon when she was reasonably sure that nothing was going to magically materialize in the fog in front of her and cause her to run into it ungracefully.  Once again, the feeling of being in some sort of noir spy film hit her in various ways.  Maybe it was the fog, maybe it was the city, maybe it was just her brain—or maybe it was how Amon looked, moving through the fog, somehow relaxed and casual and wary all at the same time.  He looked ahead of him, walking confidently but carefully, apparently not bothered by the fog.  Robin assumed that he was probably seeing right through it all with little difficulty.  She didn't know how advanced his Craft had been getting; he never mentioned, but she knew that it was definitely enabling him to have a much easier time navigating through the fog than anyone else in it, save perhaps animals with keen eyesight.

Her eyes went back to the path in front of her, but after a while of once again discerning no obstacles, they went back to Amon, discreetly.  She marveled once more at his ability to _morph_, somehow.  He'd never been too terribly Japanese-looking, aside from slightly slanted eyes, pale skin, and black hair.  His appearance spoke of only one parent of Japanese ancestry, although Robin could never find the nerve to ask him about his parents, so she stayed guessing.  But there, in Europe, among all the Europeans (such as herself, to a degree), he seemed nothing more than European.  With a simple change of clothing to Western-style suits and a magical, almost imperceptible change in air and attitude, he'd become a European, just like that.  Now that Robin was thinking about it, he'd even managed to seem mildly American while they were there, despite the fact that they'd both been extremely uncomfortable and ill at ease with America.  Visions of driving across the Southwestern United States popped unbidden into her head, Amon driving the car with seeming ease and comfort, working the clutch easily, his hair pulled back behind him, long black sleeves rolled up to his elbows, shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest (breaches of his Amon-protocol that she'd never seen before in her life), all to keep cool in the amazingly searing desert heat.  

"Be careful," he warned suddenly, out of nowhere, and Robin looked from him to the path in front of her, where four seconds later a shape appeared that turned out to be a phone booth.  She sheepishly sidestepped it and knew then that he'd been aware of her staring all along, just like he always seemed to be—no matter how discreet she thought she was being.  If he hadn't seen her looking at him, how would he have known to warn her about the phone booth?  Cheeks burning, Robin murmured a thanks.  "Keep your eyes on the road," Amon reminded her, to which her cheeks only burned with a greater fervor.  It seemed like a million years ago to Robin that she had been good, pure, pious, ready to become a bride of Christ and serve Him forever.  Now that she'd met Amon and come to know him somewhat, she couldn't imagine any worse torture than having to live without him indefinitely, a life where thinking about him would be a sin.  

His hand on her arm, gripping like a carefully tightened vice suddenly made her stop dead in her tracks, bewildered by the sudden contact.  He'd stopped completely, head tilted up slightly, eyes locked forward completely, feet apart as if bracing himself.  He vaguely reminded her of a wolf, when confronted with a threat of some kind.  

A threat.

Her own countenance suddenly wary and tense, she turned to stare intently into the direction of Amon's gaze.  He wouldn't have just stopped like that for anything, she knew.  Jaw set, she inched closer to him slightly, as ready as she ever would be for a fight.  Her skin burned, already, with the Craft coursing through her veins.  

A figure came through the fog; small, hunched, and Robin relaxed for a moment.  Then, as if on cue, Amon's body followed suit.  The figure turned out to be a hunched old man who was ambling straight towards them as if by accident, but once he saw them his eyes lit up and he hobbled forward excitedly.  

"Geld voor een slechte oude mens?" he asked, hopefully, and Robin found herself on the edge of anticipation, wondering what in the hell he had said.  Amon began to rummage in a pocket, suddenly, and Robin wondered if perhaps this was one of his mysterious contacts that he always seemed to have or acquire wherever they went.  However, he usually went to find them, never them to him—it seemed as if he wished to conduct all business as far away from Robin as possible.  After all, she was probably in the most danger out of the two of them.

"Ja. Besteed wijselijk het," Amon replied, placing a slightly crumpled piece of colourful paper in the old man's hands.  That done, the old man went on his way and Amon finally released Robin's arm, appearing relieved.  He resumed walking, and Robin, after a startled moment, resumed as well, catching up with him.

"What on earth was that all about?" she asked, urgently.  

"Old beggar," Amon replied, with a trace of amusement, as if to say 'look at us, all wound up over nothing'.  "He alarmed me so because whether or not he knew it, he was walking straight towards us.  I don't think he knew it.  There should be no reason that anyone should cross the street to walk straight towards us—that's enough cause for my alarm."  He had said all of the latter quietly.  

"Oh."  Robin's piqued curiousity fell flat, somewhat.  Perhaps secretly inside she'd been wishing that she'd just been witness to some sort of clandestine meeting with one of Amon's contacts.  The man _did_ build up a certain air of mystery around himself; it was just the kind of thing she would have expected him to take part in.  "What'd he say?  What'd you say?"

Amon made a 'heh' noise; the closest thing to a snicker or a laugh she'd ever heard him make.  "Robin, you should really have paid more attention to SOLOMON's language training.  He asked me if I had any money for him—and I said yeah, but to spend it wisely."  Amon shrugged slightly.  "I wonder who's worse off—him or us?"  
  


Robin wasn't quite sure what Amon meant; worse off in which sense, but it gave her something to think about as they continued to walk through the fog, Amon's eyes serving as a figurative set of headlights in the mist.

Robin felt desperately underdressed for the symphony; it wasn't until they'd arrived that she'd realized that perhaps she should have dressed up.  Her usual Victorian dress would have perhaps been a bit ridiculous looking, but her scarf, sweater, skirt, boots ensemble made her look like a vagabond compared to everyone else.  (At the very least she should have done something with her hair, she figured.)  Even Amon's suit, even though she'd seen him wear that particular one many time before, suddenly looked about fifteen times sharper than it usually did.  His bizarre joviality had continued all throughout the evening, although Robin had begun to wonder if it hadn't been emphasized and spurred on by the drinks he'd consumed at dinner.  

The sudden trill of the strings and the winds in unison made her nearly jump over the balcony that she was leaning on; sitting forward, arms folded on the top of the box's wall.  Amon was slightly behind her, at her side, sitting with his legs stretched out and his fingers steepled under his chin, looking somehow _calculating_ in the darkness.  With a full stomach, Amon in high spirits, and pleasant music drifting into her ears, Robin's head felt strangely empty.  It was devoid of any _real_ thoughts; errant little flashes in the pan appeared now and then, but nothing serious.  To her amazement, she'd even stopped wondering obsessively about when Nagira would call them.  For the moment, she was simply content to _be_.  She closed her eyes and _reached_, tentatively, just enough to make her suck her breath in a bit (the noise overwhelmed by the sounds of the symphony), just enough to bring the radiance of her own glow and Amon's into her mind.  It was strangely warm and soothing, like immersing one's self in a warm bath.  The sounds of the violins and flutes and all the other instruments of the orchestra suddenly were very far away, as if listening to them through a wall a million miles thick.  If she kept the reaching there, barely stretching it out at all, Amon wouldn't notice and she could stay in the comforting reality forever and ever—or at least until she had to get up and walk around, or open her eyes to talk to someone.  

When something feels good, though, human beings become greedy.  _Just a bit further, _Robin thought, _just a little more_.  In her mind's eye, it felt as if she'd just fallen over the edge of the balcony, but never hit the hall floor below—and the music grew further away still, replaced by the dull humming, whirring noise that she'd become so familiar with, the noise that would eventually grow into the murmurs of others.  Stretching out, traveling away from the glow of herself and Amon slowly, so as not to raise an alarm too quickly—

--right there.  Right below them.  Burning like a supernova.  _Another witch_.  _Here_.  Robin's eyes flew open with a jerk, and she sat up straight suddenly, her heart jolted.  She was vaguely cognizant of the sound of Amon's chair creaking as he sat up quickly in reaction to her sudden movement, his feet sliding across the floor.  There, far below them, in the rows of seating along the hall floor, was a man.

And the man was staring straight up at their box; more specifically, at Robin, who found she could do little more than stare back, a measure horrified.  By now Amon was hovering at her elbow, looking down below them, almost instantly noticing the man.  His jaw tightened noticeably.

"He's a witch," Robin murmured, scooting away from the balcony, skin burning, pupils constricted to almost pinpricks.  "He might be a Hunter, I can't tell if—"

"_Shhh._"  It was a low hiss from Amon, his head turned slightly to the side, as if he were catching the scent of something on an invisible breeze.  Robin's adrenaline and her Craft had begun to flow, circulating through her bloodstream, as was Amon's, she knew.  This was no false alarm, as it had been earlier that evening with the old Dutch beggar.  

Something was happening.  

"There are people coming up the stairs," Amon murmured, standing suddenly and quickly, moving to the door with an animal fluidity that was almost _feline_ in nature—his Craft was definitely at work.  Standing closer to the door, he listened again.  "I'd say four," he whispered, then his face darkened.  "And they're trying very hard to be quiet.  Coming in our direction.  We've still got time."

Robin had stood from her own seat, moving to Amon quickly, looking up at him, eyes knowing.  "Hunters."  

His eyes locked with her own as he withdrew his gun from the holster within his jacket, any traces of amiable nature that had been present earlier that day no longer locatable.  This was the Amon she knew, she was used to—the hard, driven look of the Hunter, eyes barely moving about, yet seeing everything.  His heartbeat was visible, quickened and strengthened greatly, as it pulsed in his neck.  "Ready?" he asked, voice like a knife piercing their tense, Craft-charged silence.

"Yes," she breathed, fire inside of her, fire under her skin, fire ready to be unleashed.  Everything she was burned like a fire.

There was no reply from Amon.  He simply opened the door; come what may from the other side.


	5. The Sky Is Falling

He went out the door first, gun up and ready, looking down either side of the dimly lit hallway.  Robin followed behind him, fumbling for her glasses, hands somewhat sweaty.  Amon jerked his head slightly towards the end of the hallway not containing the stairs; the one that led upwards and off into parts unknown.  The right end of the hallway was where the stairs were; where Robin could neither see nor hear footsteps or any sign of human pursuit, but she trusted Amon's abilities, and followed as he began to run down the hallway, away from the threat that only he could perceive at that moment.

As they rounded the corner at the end of the hallway, turning left, the sharp cracks of gunfire behind them began, holes exploding into the wall at the end of the hallway almost immediately after Robin had rounded the corner.  Amon was right, they'd hoped to catch them unaware; sneak up on them, shoot them when they weren't looking.  The hunt was on.

They rounded another corner at the end of another hallway, and by then Robin didn't need her ex-partner's super-human senses to hear them coming—angry voices, pounding feet.  Close, so close.  Another corner turned, another hallway before them.  Was this a concert hall or a maze?  Robin wasn't sure—and she would have kept running blindly had Amon's arm not snapped out immediately after the corner, hand grabbing her coat and pulling her back fiercely.  Her body performed an almost comical twirling action and came around to thump against the wall heavily, next to Amon, who was as close to the corner as he could get without any of his body showing.  Listening to the footfalls gravely, he turned around the corner quickly and fired shots; one, two, and then ducked back around the corner so quickly that he seemed to blur in Robin's vision.  A millisecond later a chair that had been in the hallway came flying down the hallway, smashing off part of the corner Amon was hiding behind.  It flew into the wall opposite them with such force that the four legs smashed _through_ the wall and the chair hung there, looking like a section from some sort of surrealist painting.  

"Go," Amon breathed, after having spent a startled second to take in the chair.  He grabbed her shoulder and turned her physically, giving her a little shove to propel her to running.  She sprinted down the hallway, Amon on her heels, threatening to overtake her—a sure sign of his Craft at work.  Her all out sprint, shockingly enough, was usually much quicker than his—at least it had been, until his Craft had awakened.  The hallway came to a T at the end, with two choices—left or right.  Robin chose right on an impulse, and in front of them was a large steel door; imposing, industrial, words in Dutch that she could not read printed upon it.  Almost sliding to a halt in front of it, she grabbed the handle and pulled backwards, hard, expecting it to be locked.  The door flew open, almost causing her to go flying backwards into Amon, whose insistent presence ushered her through the doorway, beholding the metal staircase in front of them with hope and dread alike.

Amon slammed the door behind them, and Robin turned to look at it briefly as he started to sprint up the stairs; two and three at a time, speed almost defying explanation.  A spark in her eyes flared and was gone; the metal of the door handle dripped and bubbled as she turned to begin to sprint up the stairs after Amon.  "Where are we?" she cried up to him, suddenly two flights of stairs above her.  He stopped, waiting for her.

"To the roof," he said, and waited until she'd passed him, and then ran behind her, having slowed his pace greatly.  Below them, very audible pounding was heard on the door—they were obviously attempting to open it—and suddenly the whole door came flying inwards as Robin looked down at the bottom of the staircase.  It hit the wall with a metallic crash, and three figures came running in, the hail of gunfire beginning almost immediately.  

"Keep going!" Amon said, and she obeyed.  He stopped and turned, firing back down below, but only four or five times, just enough to cease the bullets from below.  Apparently they'd realized that Amon was in a much better firing position from above than they were from below.  Robin looked below her again to see the three figures gaining, and Amon turning to resume running.  The door from the first level, which had obviously been blown in by some kind of telekinetic blast, came flying up the staircase suddenly and much to Robin's horror, would have cut Amon into two neat pieces at the waist had he not suddenly increased his speed greatly, seeming to move ten feet in the blink of an eye.  The door-turned-weapon flew through the wall, and she kept running; first place in the demented race that was occurring on the staircase.  A door, in front of her; more metal and words she could not read.  This door had a push-bar opening mechanism, and she threw herself against it with the force of her momentum only to be rewarded with the wind being knocked out of her and sore ribs.  It was locked.  

Metal melting, metal dripping, glowing red.  Her boot kicked the door open from the bottom as the locking mechanism ceased to exist.  Problem of a locked metal door; solved.

Amon flew through the door a second after she did.  They _were _on the roof, and she whirled around to look at him as he came bolting through the door, face paler than pale, drenched with sweat, gun in hand.  He stepped to the side suddenly, out of the space of the width of the door.  Just as his move had been completed and he'd rolled to his knees facing the door, gun pointed, the door came flying outwards, buckling in the middle with the force of the invisible blow.  

It would have hit Robin, had it not been incinerated to a pile of molten goo before it could do so.  Liquid metal bubbled and pooled out along the structure of the roof, starting to smoke and spread.  Amon moved back to the space near the now empty door frame, gun ready.  A figure appeared in the door.

What had been the figure's head was obliterated in a supernova of garish red and a flashing thunderclap from the gun in Amon's hand.  Robin felt sickened, somewhat, but she'd learned long ago to be disturbed by death in such violent, horrifying proximity after her _own_ death was averted and it was safe to sit down and be disturbed by such things.  

A feeling of a wind-gust, blowing Robin's hair and skirt about her somewhat—she braced herself for some sort of impact that never came.  Instead, Amon flew past her like a puppet-man on strings, body thumping against a plastered dome behind her, sliding down to the roof surface in a tangle of arms and legs as he tried to right himself for a landing.  It didn't work and he ended up on his back, momentarily stunned.  Robin turned back to the door opening, retreating backwards somewhat, the burning beneath her skin increasing.  

She was ready for them, when they finally did come through that door.  Behind her, Amon was coughing.  She couldn't afford to look behind her to see if he was going to be alright or not.  With Amon possibly out of commission behind her, the task of keeping _both_ of them alive was left to her.   

The second one came, gun firing—his Craft was obviously something not battle-useful.  Every bullet burned to nothing before it could reach Robin, her brow lowered with the effort of her shield.  The second Hunter, obviously bewildered, kept firing frantically, which was exactly what Robin wanted him to do.  Not a single bullet actually came within two feet of her—or even anywhere near Amon, thanks to the range of her shield.  The third Hunter came through the doorway, holding a gun, but not appearing too concerned with it.  Immediately Robin knew he was the one who'd been making weapons of doors; the one who'd almost cut Amon in half, the one who would have cut her in half as well had she not melted the door.  

Hunter two, wide-eyed, ejected the empty magazine from his gun, and reached for a new one.  It was exactly what Robin had been waiting for him to do, and her green eyes sparked.

He disappeared in a flash of white-hot flames, leaving little more than a very tiny bit of ashes behind.  The third Hunter, bewildered, loosed a telekinetic blast at her, the invisible wrecking ball hitting her equally-as-invisible shield—which suddenly flared to life with arcs of fire like a solar flare up-close; the force of the Hunter's Craft pushed Robin backwards on her feet some, boots scraping across the roof as the blast pushed, tried to get past her fire, to no avail.  

The Hunter was determined.  Blast after blast came from within him, slamming uselessly against the wall Robin had constructed for herself, along with bullets that he fired, interspersed.  She dug her feet in and steeled herself, biding her time.  An opportunity would open up, eventually; all she needed to do until then was keep her wall strong, be alert, and not let anything through.  A tiny voice in her brain wondered, worriedly, how long he could keep it up for—and, conversely, how long she could keep it up for.

Wind; air, a gust from behind her, putting a stab of fear into her heart—_how did he break through_?, her mind reeled in the split-second space before there was a flash and a _boom_ and Hunter three's head endured the same fate that the first Hunter's had.  Startled into confusion, Robin's barrier ceased to exist, her brain relaxing unintentionally as it attempted to figure out what had just happened.  She blinked.

Amon was in front of her, suddenly, extremely winded and, if at all possible, paler than he had been before.  Sweat dripped from his chin almost non-stop.  She let out a shaky breath and hurried over to him, making a point to not look at anything but him due to the abundance of _bio-mass_, for lack of a better term, around them.  "Are you hurt?" she asked, breathlessly, and he shook his head a response, words evidently not possible for him at the moment.

In the distance the very faint sound of strange, European sirens was heard.  "_Politie_," Amon forced out, wiping uselessly at his face with his sleeve, trying to prevent sweat from running into his eyes.  He was wincing, slightly—no, more like _squinting.  _Robin resisted the urge to throw herself at him, hugging him tightly, and instead ran to the edge of the roof about fifty feet away, and looked down.  About another fifty to seventy-five feet from where she was standing was a metal ladder, small and hazardous-looking, leading down the lengthy expanse of building.  

"Here," she called, jogging breathlessly to the point where the ladder was, Amon jogging half-heartedly behind her.  "A ladder.  Can you…climb?" she asked, tentatively, and regretted her concern almost immediately.  Amon's weary eyes hardened and his jaw set, determined; as if he had something to prove.  Before she could say another word, he was stowing his gun away and had practically vaulted himself over the decorated lip of the roof, climbing down the ladder with breakneck speed.  Robin watched him for a moment, frowning slightly; going down a ladder at that speed wasn't safe in the first place, let alone in the condition Amon was in, but she said nothing.  Easing herself over the wall, she began to climb down the ladder herself, going _far_ slower than Amon had.  The sirens were getting closer, but were still a ways away.

At the bottom, she looked at Amon, his pale, sweat-dripping face; and then, without another word, they set off down the alleyway quickly—Amon marching doggedly on, refusing to let weakness show, Robin walking at his side, wondering idly where on earth all the abundant fog had gone.

At the flat, there was no time to rest.  Without any words exchanged, both Robin and Amon headed off to their respective rooms, shoving belongings into bags, each with an air of what could only be described as resigned, familiar defeat.  Nothing had changed, nothing _ever_ changed—even when they thought that perhaps it had.

_Will it ever?_ Robin found herself thinking as she zipped up her bag and pulled it off her bed, half-dragging half-hauling it to the main sitting room.  Amon appeared in the sitting room seconds later, his own bag in tow, face still pale.  Considerably less pale than it had been, and less sweaty, for certain.  His hair was still extremely damp with perspiration, however.  He looked at her, sternly.

"Are you still so ready to believe that SOLOMON has—or will—give up?" he asked, pausing briefly.  She stared back at him, trying not to let her defeat show—and, she thought, perhaps partially failing to do so.

"Yes," she replied, even though she wasn't sure if she fully believed it.  He only looked at her evenly, in response, mouth a taut, downturned line, all traces of any benign curve that may have been there earlier in the evening gone without a trace.

"I see," he commented, flatly, as he was often wont to do.  Silence.  Then: "Come.  I've called a taxi.  We're leaving tonight."

Robin stood, hefting her bag up and over her shoulder with considerable effort; when had it become so heavy?  As Amon slung his own bag over his shoulder he kept his back ramrod straight, shoulders squared powerfully; which either meant that his bag had not gotten any heavier since their last clandestine move, or that he was making a show of his capability in order to disguise his absolute exhaustion.  Robin watched his steps as they exited the flat, walked down the hallway: definitely a show of capability.  Amon's feet seemed heavier and clumsier than they usually were.

Below, in the street, a plain black cab waited.  Thankfully, Hunters did not.

The port of Amsterdam was foggy, dark, quieter than it would have been during the daytime.  Robin sat quietly in the backseat next to Amon, who spoke at length with the driver in Dutch; about what, she had no clue.  Finally, after an eternity, it seemed, Amon handed the driver money and they exited the vehicle, retrieving their bags from the rack on top of the small car.  Amon barely even waited for it to pull out of the way before he started walking along the road, down towards the docks.  Robin watched him for a moment and then began to walk after him, catching up within a moment.

"What are we doing?" she asked, her brow furrowed.  "Most boats will have stopped passenger service by now, won't they have?"

"Not the one we're looking for," Amon replied, enigmatically.  Robin figured that the conversation in Dutch between the cab driver and Amon had clued him in to the existence of this particular boat; either that, or he had called a contact immediately upon returning to where they had formerly been staying.  "_Wanhoop_."

"Huh?"  Robin cocked an eyebrow at the unfamiliar word.  "Is that the name of the boat?"

"Yes."  Amon looked at her briefly as they descended some concrete stairs, down to a dock ramp, the air clammy and cold around them, the sound of the water lapping around boats filling it.  "Appropriately, it's Dutch for desperation.  We're going to London—tonight."

_Desperation_.  Robin's mind was lost in dark thoughts, her body repeatedly tried to force tears to her eyes, her heart ached as she watched Amon, who was so obviously exhausted, worse for the wear, and somewhat angry with himself—_yes, desperation is right_.  "London?  Again?"

"Yes, again.  It was so popular the first time around that this little pleasure cruise decided to stop there _again_."

They'd been chased out of London the same way they were being chased out of Amsterdam at that very moment.  The irony threatened to crush Robin and leave her broken into little pieces there on the dock if she thought about it too much.

Amon's bitter sarcasm caused Robin to fall into lengthy silence.  She spoke not a single word during their entire walk down the dock, spoke not a word as they located the boat and Amon spoke in Dutch with her captain, spoke not a word as they left the lights of Amsterdam behind, after money was paid and sea-faring preparations were made.

As the captain piloted the ship from the small enclosed cabin on the deck, Amon sat down on floor of the cabin, back against the wall.  He suddenly looked ten years older; as if he hadn't slept in a week and had just run a marathon.  Robin seated herself beside him and was somewhat startled (but not much) when he fell fast asleep, hands folded in his lap, head leaned back against the wall.  She scooted closer to him, in increments, until she was barely pressed against his side, her leg touching his slightly, their arms just barely brushing, trying to be close without being intrusive.  She'd moved closer expecting that with the occasional gentle tossing of the small boat in the waves, Amon would have slumped to the side some and would have needed something to lean against; in spite of the slight yawing of the boat now and again, however, he remained bolt upright.  

Robin was not sure if this disappointed her or amazed her.  Perhaps both.

"_Het__ verlaten van Amsterdam in een haast?_" the captain spoke suddenly, and Robin's eyes slid up to him, her mouth moving uselessly.  Not only had she no idea what he had just said, but she had no idea of how to reply.

"I…I can't speak Dutch," she said, unsurely, feeling rather stupid.  The captain turned to look at her, briefly, smiling gently.  His eyes were a time-worn blue beneath rapidly fading blonde, bushy eyebrows.

"I can speak English, a little," he replied, heavily accented.  Robin breathed a slight sigh of relief.  "You are leaving Amsterdam with a hurry?"

Robin bit her lip.  Amon had often reproached her for sharing what he considered too much information with strangers.  However, he appeared to be dead to the world at the moment, so she figured a small conversation with the boat's captain couldn't hurt things any.  "Yes.  It didn't…"  She fumbled for a suitable excuse.  "…suit us."

The Dutch man laughed slightly, shaking his head.  "It doesn't, most of my passengers."  He looked back at her again, same gentle smile.  "My name is Petyr."

Robin smiled back, timidly.  "I'm Robin."  She looked down at the sleeping man next to her, so unguarded and measures less dangerous and severe-looking in his sleep.  "This is Amon."

"Hope for better luck at London, yes?  Not better weather—Amsterdam and London, almost same weather."  He laughed, as if he'd said something incredibly funny.  "Fog always, too much rain.  Always grey."

Robin, recalling her bonding session with the fog earlier that day—God, how long ago _that_ seemed!—shrugged slightly, her sweater brushing up and down the sleeve of Amon's overcoat.  "I kind of like fog."

"Then why you leave Amsterdam?" Petyr the captain asked with an incredulous, smoke-and-whisky sounding laugh, and Robin found she could not reply.

Petyr's English was not good enough to have lengthy conversations, and for a while, Robin and he habitually misunderstood each other until she excused herself and went outside, feeling useless.  It was incredibly frustrating to try to talk to someone whom you couldn't understand very well, and whom couldn't understand you very well, either.  Amon still slept, still upright, unmoving.  He looked as if he'd been arranged that way; as if he was a corpse at a funeral viewing.  He slept so deeply that he had not even noticed her watching him, and awoken.

Outside, the dark sea stretched out around the boat on all sides, grayish-white waves of the North Sea breaking against the ship slightly.  The North Sea, she knew, became particularly nasty the further north one went, and she was thankful that they didn't have to travel too far north.  She didn't really care for sea-travel in the first place; the feeling of looking around one's self and seeing nothing but water as far as the eye could see was a semi-frightening thought to Robin.  Not only was the ocean boundless on all sides, but boundless below, as well.  Who knew how deep it went down, and what lurked at those depths?  When complimented by the endless sky above (especially a nighttime sky), Robin felt as if she were in an alternate dimension, a black hole.  

The boundless space was oppressive.  Even more oppressive than the small cabin filled with misunderstood, awkward words had been.

The door opened behind her.  She already knew that it was Amon.  Sensing her absence, he'd awoken.  Same as always.  He may have been sleeping deeply, but no matter _how_ deeply he slept, he always seemed to notice that she was gone.

He appeared next to her, at the railing of the deck, blinking eyes that were the same colour as the night North Sea, looking less worn than he had before.  "What are you doing out here?" he asked.

"Getting some air," Robin replied, not really sure what she was doing, herself.

"I thought you disliked the ocean," he countered, and Robin had no idea how he'd known that.  She couldn't recall ever having mentioned her dislike of the ocean to him, but whatever.  

"I do," she answered, after a hesitation.  They stood there together in silence for a moment, watching the sea.  It seemed strange and uncomfortable to Robin for them to stand there in such oppressive surroundings in silence, so she spoke.  "Why were you in such a good mood earlier today?" she asked him suddenly, if only to break the silence.  She honestly wasn't expecting him to give her any kind of explanation.

"I was drunk," he replied.  He caught her look of disbelief, as if saying 'You?  Drunk?  Yeah _right_'.  "Honestly.  To be honest with you, I was still intoxicated while we were running for our lives."

She didn't know what to think of that particular revelation.  If Amon hadn't just informed her that he'd been drunk all day, she never would have even guessed.  He hadn't _acted_ drunk in the least, or what people who were drunk were supposed to act like, or…Robin was kind of confused as to how and when he had gotten drunk so early in the day, and she vociferated this fact.

"My room," he informed her.  "I bought a bottle of scotch on my birthday—it's a bit of a tradition, I guess.  I decided to open it today, and I'd been drinking it."  He grimaced, looking irritated—at nothing in particular, at everything, she supposed.  "I suppose that's why I decided it would be a _fantastic_ idea to go cavorting about the city."  Amon's eyes scanned the sea, void of any discernable emotion.  "I suppose it's accurate to say that no matter how many birthdays I have, how many annual bottles of scotch I buy—that I won't get any older and wiser."

Robin processed all of this, and then came to a realization.  He was _talking_.  "Are you still drunk?" she asked, pointedly.

"Mildly," he replied, truthfully.

"Perhaps that's why your Craft seemed to take so much out of you, tonight?" Robin queried, and watched Amon's face darken almost instantaneously.  "I mean, it seems like it'd be difficult to operate when…"  She trailed off, upon noting that the dark cloud over Amon's face was intensifying.

"It all comes down to a gun and I," Amon said, after an obviously angry silence.  Robin wondered if he was _ever_ going to come to terms with the fact that he was a witch, or if he was just going to keep pointedly ignoring it by never speaking about it for the rest of his life.  "My Craft has nothing to do with me staying alive.  I did it for years without one—"

It occurred to Robin that Amon hadn't really answered her question, but that didn't matter.  She had another one.  "What do you think it is?  Your Craft, I mean.  How does it happen?  What gives you those powers?"  Hers seemed easily explained to her; control of fire, the beginnings of a mild mastery over other elements, and now, apparently, the developing ability to seek out other witches.  Amon's seemed unusual to her, although somehow perfectly fit to him.  What hunter in the world didn't wish that their senses, their reflexes were better?  As in _much_ better?  The Craft, however, seemed overwhelm Amon at times, and it seemed to take quite a toll on his body, as well.  But what was the most disconcerting about all of it, to Robin, was that he appeared to not yet be able to exercise, really, _any_ power over when it came and went, and how strong it wanted to be.  Amon's Craft seemed to be of a mostly defensive nature, which meant that if it got the best of him, he was more or less a sitting duck.  If his powers overpowered him, he wouldn't even be able to move, to use his gun, to hear anything—

As he stood looking down at her for some measure of time it appeared as if Amon was a gathering storm; building up his anger inside to drop it all out on Robin like rain.  For whatever reason, however, his face and his eyes seemed to cave in light of Robin's level, inquisitive look.  _I'm just wondering, just curious.  Just trying to know you better_, Robin thought to herself, catching a glimpse of something intense going on in Amon's eyes—even if it was only for a fleeting second that she saw it.

"It's as if you're running," he began, quietly, so quietly it almost startled Robin with the secrecy and intimacy of its nature.  "Running, trying to get up to top speed.  You reach top speed, but you can't stop.  You keep going—your legs keep moving, more and more energy coming from out of nowhere.  Your body feels like it could go forever and ever until it can't anymore—but your brain feels _overloaded_."

There was silence between them then, Robin trying to process how such a thing would feel, body able to keep going, adrenaline coursing through your veins—but the mind, unable to keep up.  "It sounds frightening," she admitted.

More silence, swallowed by the oppressive nature of the sea, and the sudden lack of Amon's overbearing presence—it seemed as if the invisible air that surrounded him everywhere he went had shrunk a few sizes.

"It _is_ frightening," he admitted, and then said no more.  

Robin said no more as well; she could not bring herself to poke and prod at an open wound in Amon's side, could not bring herself to kick him when he was down by asking him any more questions.  

"London again?" she asked finally, an echo of her words from much earlier.  Amon seemed more likely to answer her this time around, however, rather than snap at her.  He seemed to pick himself up and put himself back together a bit before he spoke to her, looking more like the man she knew all too well when he looked down at her; partner, protector, daddy-knows-best-warden.  _Beautiful creature_, Robin added silently.

"Yes," came the reply, Amon looking at her, seriously as ever.  The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly; he was the only person that Robin had ever seen who could _truly_ smile with his eyes.  This was his way of reassuring her—possibly thanking her, Robin wasn't too sure.  "I'm so sick of bangers and mash that I could scream, but yes, London again."

She had to giggle somewhat at that comment.  Another day, another death averted.  They were still alive.

   __


	6. Waiting Room

A/N: Until I figure out exactly what the hell is wrong with my copy of Microsoft Word and why it won't let me save anything, I shall be doing all of my writing in Wordpad, which is GHETTO. No spell check, no grammar corrections, etc. I'm sort-of-kind-of pretty good about stuff like that on my own but we shall see, I suppose. Also, I have no italics font, so (here we reach the very zephyr of ghetto fabulousness) for the next however long all things that would normally be in italics will be seen in between slashes, such as this: /shit/. Yeah, I know. Ghetto. But you know how we do, g. Onward with the story.  
  
--------------------  
  
They arrived in London with the coming of dawn. The sun had not even appeared just yet—the sky had gone from the black of night to the eerie grey of pre-dawn. The river Thames stretched out like a great, dark snake, onward. To his irritation, Amon found he could not shake the scent of the sea—his clothes, his hair, his /being/ seemed permeated with the salt water smell. He looked down at his cohort and found that the sea and the light of pre-dawn had stolen all the colour and hue from her being; she was a painted character of a girl in shades of grey and white. He imagined that he looked much the same, only on the darker end of the scale; not so much white, more black.   
  
Robin, in the strange light, looked only half-alive. This disturbed Amon, and he found himself not wanting to look at her until there was more light outside.  
  
His body ached, his head throbbed, his senses switched randomly from being normal to slightly heightened. Amon groaned, mentally. Apparently his body was still reeling from the exertion of the prior night, feeling worn out and misused. Doggedly he went on, although he wanted to do nothing more than lay down where he stood, on the dock, curl into a ball, and go to sleep for a few million years. Archaeologists would dig him up, still intact, still slumbering, and call it  
  
the Second Coming of Christ. Everything else would pass into the dust it started from, whatever and ever, amen.  
  
Amon shook his head slightly to stop it from rambling on, nonsense. Behind him, a very tired and sea-hating Robin trudged along faithfully, bag too heavy for her slight frame. Up, up, up; to something that looked more like civilization and less like a dockyard, and out, out out; to something that looked more like a futuristic transportation booth and less like a phone booth. Amon dialed the operator and asked to be put through to a taxi company. He was, and he was informed that  
  
one would be by shortly. Exiting the phone booth, he discovered Robin sitting on a bench next to the street and sat down next to her, thumping his bag down on the ground (albeit somewhat gently, there were electronics in there). She appeared to be fighting sleep, as well, except in a more outward fashion. Her eyelids sank down repeatedly, only to be jerked back up to stay open.  
  
It made sense that she should be tired; she slept not at all on the trip from Amsterdam to London. Amon suspected it had something to do with her wary watching of the water; something that once she'd started doing, she'd done all night until their arrival.   
  
There was no one about. Five minutes passed. The sun began to rise fully, lightening the sky to a whiter shade of grey. Amon, hands folded in his lap, felt like a zombie. Robin curled up in a ball in an effort to fall asleep, supporting herself.  
  
Half-awake, moderately hung over, and letting the irrational, emotional side of his brain run things for him, Amon reached over with his right arm and drew Robin to him, leaning her head against his shoulder for support. She was stiff at first, startled; and then relaxing thankfully, cuddled against him. She was asleep within two minutes.  
  
Amon sat and wished that he could have firmly stated that the reason why she was leaning against him at the moment cradled in the crook of his arm was that he wanted her to be comfortable while she slept.  
  
He could have firmly stated that fact, but the point of the matter was that even if he convinced anyone else, /he/ would know that he was lying.  
  
--------------------  
  
He was beginning to suspect that perhaps he was bi-polar. Amon contemplated this as they bumped along in the small taxi, Robin once again leaned against him in slumber, once again at the insistence of his arm. His own actions confused him, sometimes, and he knew that they certainly confused the hell out of Robin—and most anyone else that he came into contact with, more than likely.  
  
Frustrated, he'd long ago given up on any denial of his feelings towards the tow-headed witch at his side; at least denial to himself, anyway. Plenty of time had been spent wrestling with the demons in his mind; the guilt, the self-loathing, the bewilderment at having someone so under his skin. Even though it still irked him considerably at times, he'd somewhat come to grips with the fact that he had intense feelings for someone who was ten—strike that, now /eleven/—years younger than him. After a while Amon had realized that the guilt would eat him alive if he let it, and he shoved it away, ignoring it. Nothing he could do—or did—seemed to change his feelings for Robin. They only seemed to intensify the further along they went.   
  
Bi-polarism played into the picture with respects to how Amon acted towards Robin, mostly due to the fact that he was frightened by the intensity of his own emotions. He alternated between treating her like an insignificant speck to being a benevolent older-brother figure; from snapping at her nastily to comforting her. He wanted to grab her, hold her so tightly that it left bruises, memorize the shape of her body, run his hands through her light hair and hold her to him  
  
in such a manner that it would probably be somewhat unpleasant feeling. He'd dropped his life /just like that/ to run off and bind himself to the girl next to him, and that, quite frankly, /scared the hell out of him/. He'd never been that engrossed in something before in his life, let alone a woman.  
  
Let alone a /girl/.  
  
He'd never loved or wanted something so much that thinking about it made him grit his teeth so hard that he thought some of them were beginning to come loose.  
  
He'd never met someone who'd looked down the barrel of his gun and lived because /he could not pull the trigger/.  
  
If Robin was Eve, Amon wondered, did that delegate him to the Adam role? Did Robin expect him to fill that role? He wasn't sure if he was ready for such a thing--or if he would ever be.   
  
As the taxi wound around narrow, slow London roads on its way to a hotel, disturbing thoughts echoed around in Amon's too-tired, semi-malfunctional brain like ricocheting bullets.  
  
---------------------  
  
A hotel. Robin inferred from Amon's choice of lodging that they wouldn't be in London for very long. Or perhaps they would; staying in a hotel was not always an indicator of how long they would stay somewhere. They'd lived out of a hotel room in Paris for nearly two months, Robin nearly going mad with the brusque infamiliarity of it all. (She'd run up a room service bill that would have made any normal person's eyes fall out of their head at the end of that two months; but no, not /Amon/, he'd just looked at it and paid the disgusting amount of money without a sound.) Not that she was hoping that they'd be staying in London long enough to get an actual /lodging/ of some kind--she wasn't very fond of London, or of England for that matter.   
  
Bad memories. Bad SOLOMON memories, more specifically. And plus, she hated the food. And true to the rumour, British people really /did/ have the scariest teeth she'd ever seen in her life. She'd been caught staring, helplessly, at the gnarled teeth of the young man behind the counter at the hotel while he was checking them in, and caught a slight reprimanding look from Amon for it. Obviously her stare had been so pointed that he'd noticed it, which may or may not  
  
have meant that the young man behind the counter had noticed it. They retreived a room key. Amon gruffly declined the assistance of a eager bellboy who wanted to carry their things for them, and then they were off, into the elevator, up to their room.   
  
There weren't too many people about at the early hour, and she and Amon were the only two in the elevator. The flourescent light did little to improve their appearances, Robin noticed from looking at their reflections in some brass panelling. She looked like a girl on her death bed, and Amon looked much a corpse /past/ its death bed.   
  
"We're staying in a hotel?" Robin asked, mostly to break the silence. Amon nodded, minutely.  
  
"I don't expect to be here long," he said, simply. That was that. Silence reigned again.  
  
It did so all the way to the room, which Amon opened with the key, Robin stumbling in ahead of him, hand groping for a light switch. She finally found one, and flipped on a set of lights only to see Amon wince exaggeratedly, walking heavy-footedly over to a couch near a bank of windows along the wall. He tossed his bag onto the floor near the couch in a seemingly uncaring manner and then pulled off his shoes with a exhausted desperation of a man who wants to sleep but has no patience for getting ready for sleep. After the shoe removal Amon simply flopped heavily down upon the  
  
couch and laid there, unmoving. He was still wearing his coat and all, but Robin thought it wise not to say anything since he obviously didn't care much.  
  
Instead, she double-locked the hotel room door behind her and made her way silently to the bed at the other end of the room. She went though the same bag-dropping and shoe-removing ritual that Amon had, but she removed her coat and took down her hair before crawling into the bed, not caring that she was still wearing all her clothing that smelled of the fight in Amsterdam and the sea.  
  
Robin was asleep in short order. She did not know that Amon had been asleep almost from the very second that he'd touched the couch.  
  
--------------------  
  
Nagira Syunji was sitting at a ritsy sushi bar in downtown Tokyo, having lost all interest in the food in front of him. Oddly enough, as he sat and listened to his baby brother's otherworldly monotone rattle on in his ear through the cell phone, Nagira became more interested in his drink and his cigarettes. He became so interested in his drink that it interested him to order another--a stronger one.  
  
He rubbed his eyes and groaned slightly, said eyes flicking over to the window to gaze out the window of the building, four stories up. He imagined his baby brother doing the same across the world, staring vapidly out a window at a significantly more drab outdoor setup. Strangers in a strange land; Robin and Amon in London, /again/. They /really/ hadn't liked it the first time around, and now they were there again, and Nagira could hear all kinds of complete clusterfuck frustration in Amon's voice.  
  
"And so now you're in London again, eh?" he asked the voice on the other side of the world, picking up his drink and taking a swallow. Much better. Much stronger. He lit up a cigarette, looking down at the food in front of him disinterestedly. At this point, he'd be better off having them wrap it to go for him.  
  
"Yes. In London. Again. And we can't stay here long."   
  
Nagira let out a big lungful of smoke, once again looking out at the night sky through the window. On the other side of the world, Amon would be almost in time for afternoon tea--or, at the very least, having just finished lunch. "Well, no shit, kid. I don't understand why /London/ would be such a SOLOMON stronghold, anyway."  
  
"I don't either. But it is, and we can't stay here long. I already pressed our luck once with London and we came the closest to being killed that we've come yet. I don't care to try it again."  
  
"Have you slept?" Nagira asked, out of nowhere. He couldn't help it. Affection, emotion, concern--these things were usually never displayed between the brothers. But ever since Amon had been routinely coming close to death on average once a month, Nagira found himself unable to help but be concerned whenever he got the inevitable phone call--Amon's voice, sounding like a cello string pulled too tight, a voice too ragged, too tired, saying that they'd just run. Again.  
  
"I have," his baby brother replied. "A bit."  
  
"Have you eaten?"  
  
"No. Can't. Not hungry." Nagira heard a sound through the phone that was all too familiar to him, and he couldn't help but smile at how much they were alike, sometimes, even if Amon tried fervently to deny it. "I had room service bring me up a pack of god-awful cigarettes, though."  
  
Still smiling, Nagira spoke. "You had room service go out and get you cigarettes? That's awfully eccentric, even for you."  
  
"I don't particularly care how eccentric they think I am. If I'm paying them this much money for a hotel room, they'd better do jumping jacks if I ask them to, as well as go get me cigarettes."  
  
Nagira chuckled. "I thought they were called fags on that island, brother."  
  
A pause. "I see. I'm /not/ going to call them that. I am, however, going to wonder about what the hell we're going to do now."  
  
Nagira sighed, having been jerked back onto track by Amon's determination. He ground his cigarette out in the sleek metal ashtray on his table and immediately lit up another, taking another large swallow from his drink. At this rate, he'd be strolling into the office about three hours late tomorrow, just late enough for Mika to try to slap him. "They just keep trying to kill you two, but you refuse to go down. As long as whatever you're going to do involves keeping on your  
  
toes, I'd say you'll be okay, kid."  
  
Another pause. "I'm not sure how much longer I can go on being on my toes for." More silence.  
  
Nagira fought the urge to let his jaw drop. Amon? Admitting weakness? Albeit it was probably more than warranted in this situation, but that only frightened Nagira even more. Amon and Robin had been pretty good at staying alive, at staying hidden, at living a life that mostly involved disappearing--but Nagira had often wondered when it was going to start to take its toll, or when something was going to go horribly, horribly wrong. He couldn't /help/ but think those things,   
  
sometimes. And now, the fact that his abnormally stoic, overly-competent baby brother was admitting that he was starting to get worn down, Nagira knew that things were worse than they seemed. Running from SOLOMON hadn't been easy on either Robin or Amon, but Amon, it seemed to Nagira, perhaps had it a bit worse than Robin in some respects. Amon was living a life he didn't want, the life of a witch; which included forsaking all he'd known, unable to control himself or the  
  
circumstances around him, and /still/ not able to come to grips with whatever it was that was happening between him and the young girl he'd sworn (in a fucked up but kind of cute-Amon way) to protect by killing, should he ever think she needed it.  
  
Dare Nagira call it love? He dared to, sometimes, but that usually resulted in Amon hanging up on him. So he stopped daring.  
  
"You just need to keep being careful, that's all," Nagira said, reassuringly. "And you've got Robin to help you with that."  
  
"What help is a girl who's chief concern is running out and, for all intents and purposes, blowing our cover?" Amon asked tinnily, sounding harried. "/This/ kind of thing occurring is why I don't exactly think it's the brightest idea in the world to go out and try to find others. I don't /want/ to find any others."  
  
"Maybe you don't, but she does," Nagira reminded, frowning. "That's something you two need to take care of on your own. And if you can't take care of it, go your separate ways."  
  
"I wasn't asking you to play mediator," Amon snapped, coldly. Nagira let his head loll somewhat, exasperated--was his brother /ever/ going to stop being an emotional mindfield? Or, at the very least, not so much of a damned /porcupine/? "And as for going our separate ways, that's completely out of the question. Robin wouldn't last a day on her own." A pause. "Her powers are growing. I'm not sure when--or /if/--they're going to stop. I need to watch that," Amon said, detachedly. Nagira couldn't help but snort.  
  
"I don't think either one of you would last very long without one another," Nagira found himself saying, somewhat laughingly. Could Amon /really/ sit there and lie to himself so straight-facedly? It was amazing. Nagira wondered if perhaps it was some sort of strange self-hypnosis plan that Amon prescribed to. "Robin's too guileless, and you can't even control your Craft properly. And as   
  
for making sure that Robin doesn't suddenly lose her mind completely and level a small country, if you're /still/ worried about that, you're a fucking /moron/, Amon. I'm not really seeing that happen at this point in time. And even if it did--" here, Nagira couldn't stop himself from getting a jab in, "--you couldn't pull the trigger once. I don't think you could do it the second time, either."  
  
Nagira listened a measurely smugly, a measure worriedly at the stark silence eminating from his earpiece. Either Amon was getting ready to have a complete nuclear meltdown or he was just going to take a moment to stuff it all back inside, and stay silent and stoic about it only to lose sleep over it later. "I don't call you for commentary on my life," Amon said finally, evenly. "I'm calling   
  
you because I need help. And if /I'm/ asking for help then you know I must need it badly."  
  
A waitress came and looked at Nagira's empty glasses, and his plate of full sushi rolls. She silently offered another drink, to which Nagira nodded, and then he covered his mouthpiece momentarily to ask her to package the rolls to go for him. She nodded, smiling, and complied. He went back to his conversation, eyes shut. "As it so happens, I /do/ have some help for you. But I have the feeling you're not going to like it at all."  
  
There was silence and rustling from Amon's end in London, and then Nagira heard murmuring through the earpiece. It sounded backgroundish and very female--Robin. She'd been sleeping when Amon first called, but she was evidentally now awake. "Robin is awake," Amon said into his phone. "I see. Why wouldn't I like it? /Hey/." Amon's voice suddenly sounded a bit more   
  
distant on the last word, as if he were holding the phone away from his ear somewhat. "What are you doing?" he asked, sounding vaguely reprimanding and still somewhat faint. "This isn't a bar in France, you know," he went on, distantly.   
  
Nagira couldn't help but crack a smile and wonder what the hell Robin was doing /now/ to make his baby brother's blood pressure run high. He could hear the faintest of murmurs in the background that must have been Robin's replies to his brother's queries, but he couldn't quite make them out.   
  
"What I do and what you do are two /very/ different things," Amon continued at Robin. More murmuring. "Do as you please, then," Amon replied with vague distaste and resignation, and then came back into Nagira's earpiece fully. "Continue."  
  
"What the hell was that all about?" Nagira had to ask.   
  
"Nothing. Tell me what you've got planned."  
  
"Well, the reason I said you wouldn't like it is because it pertains more to locating other witches than to finding a way for you to get away from SOLOMON, really. Although who knows, perhaps those two are one and the same." Nagira took a deep breath, and went on. "You're going to need to go to Iceland."  
  
"Iceland?" Amon asked, sounding flatly incredulous. He might as well just have asked Nagira if he was fucking joking. "/Iceland/."  
  
"Yes, Iceland. There's a woman there who's kind of like...well, I don't really know what the hell to call her." Nagira thought for a moment. "She's kind of like an international witch phonebook. She's pretty damned connected."  
  
Amon was silent as he probably processed the information. "How is that possible? How does she know what she knows?"  
  
Nagira lit another cigarette and took another drink from new glass the waitress had placed in front of him. "I don't know. No one told me. All I know is that she's supposed to be very, very connected. She probably knows more witches than SOLOMON."  
  
"Is she a witch?"  
  
Nagira laughed somewhat. "From what they tell me, no. No, she's not."  
  
"That sounds rather strange to me."  
  
"Sketchy, you mean," Nagira corrected. "That sounds very sketchy." His food returned, wrapped and boxed in an elaborate plastic affair. He nodded appreciatively at the waitress, and turned his attention back to the phone. "It's legit, though. I checked it out. That's pretty much all I know right now--but I'm going to do some more digging, here, soon, and you should be able to get out of London within the week."  
  
"Make it within a couple days," Amon said, sounding put out. "We won't stay here a week. I'll fly us over to the damned United States before I stay here another week." That statement alone spoke measures, Nagira knew, because Amon and Robin hadn't even considered staying in the States once they were there. They just got across the country and got the hell out because they'd absolutely /hated/ it there, even if they hadn't been hassled by SOLOMON at all while there.  
  
"Let me talk to Robin," Nagira said, suddenly, and Amon sighed, still sounding put out. Clunking; the phone was being handed over, and suddenly Robin's voice: "Hello?"  
  
Nagira smiled at the sound of her voice, the thought of her little presence. "Hey, kiddo. What're you doing to make Amon have a heart attack now?"  
  
"Um." Robin tittered slightly, and exhaled somewhat. "...I'm smoking."  
  
Nagira let out an outright laugh, picturing Robin smoking. Amon had informed him that Robin had dabbled with smoking a couple of times while in France, none much to Amon's liking, but as long as Amon was an on-again-off-again-usually-due-to stress-smoker, he couldn't really complain, now could he? "Hey, those things are bad for you, you know," Nagira commented, finding the whole thing hilarious.  
  
"I know," Robin replied, sounding cowed. "I guess I just like to do it every once in a while. What's Amon talking about Iceland for?" she asked, suddenly changing the subject.  
  
"You two are probably going to be going there within the week," Nagira informed her. "I've caught wind of a woman there whom I know that at least /you/ would be interested to talk to. She could probably steer you in the right direction of other witches."   
  
"Really?" Robin sounded glad; exhausted, but glad. "That's great. Thank you, Nagira. We've never been to Iceland, before."  
  
"It's cold, I hear. And strange, as well," Nagira said.  
  
"Well, as long as it's not London, I think we'll be fine," Robin replied.  
  
Nagira smiled. "I think you two will be fine, anyway."  
  
--------------------  
  
Amon hung up the phone a few minutes later, setting it on the table next to his laptop. He turned, frowning, to look at Robin, who was perched in a chair next to him, arms around her knees, cigarette freshly extinguished in the glass tray on the table. She, like him, was wearing the same clothes that she'd been wearing yesterday, and both were probably in desperate need  
  
of bathing. She, unlike him, was probably hungry.  
  
He'd deal with that in a minute. He grabbed the pack of cigarettes off the table and shook one out, sticking it in his lips and lighting it. Sighing, he extended the pack to Robin and shook one out, and she reached a slender hand over and took it.   
  
"I'll let it slip this one time," he said, not looking at her as she lit the cigarette, "because we're in London. Next time I catch you smoking I am going to cloud up and rain all over your parade."  
  
Robin raised an eyebrow at him inquisitively. "I would hardly call this a parade."  
  
"It's a figure of speech."  
  
"I know. But it's not a very good parade, is it?"  
  
Amon sighed. "No. No it's not. But it still doesn't change the fact that I am not going to let you smoke." He took a drag. "It's extremely bad for you--not to mention it's not very becoming of a fifteen year old girl to have such a habit."  
  
"But you're--"  
  
"I'm sure you've heard the phrase 'Do as I say, not as I do'," Amon countered before Robin could get her full, quiet protest out of her mouth. Never mind that he was a hypocrite. They were in London again and his mood was foul, and, as usual, he was taking it out on /her/, the one person who probably deserved it the least. Amon mentally stabbed himself in the stomach.  
  
"I have," she replied, after a while. She looked down at her toes and curled them back and forth. "I don't really think it matters in this situation, anymore," she added, quietly.   
  
"I still think it does." Amon fixed her with a /stare/. "Why are you being difficult?" he asked, pointedly, icily.  
  
She continued to look at her toes, curling. The cigarette dangled from her hand. "I'm capable of making my own decisions," she murmured, steel underneath the soft whisper. "Why are you being mean?" she added, countering his comment about being difficult.  
  
Amon was taken aback by her question, her quiet insinuation. In her quiet, Robin-way, she had just done the equivalent of calling him an asshole--which he deserved, he knew. Not that he agreed with her smoking any more or less, but there wasn't really much he could do about it.  
  
They were partners in this whole messy nightmare, not father and daughter. And being partners made it very, very hard for him to push her away sufficiently the way he could when he was in the father-role. He was coming to discover that Robin had apparently decided that she would have no more of that, anymore. He found he couldn't blame her, really.  
  
"Because," he started, and then stopped. "Because I /am/ mean," he admitted. "And we're in London again, and I am more irritable than usual. I'm tired, worn-out, and my patience is about gone. I am trying to figure out how to keep us alive when I barely have enough energy to sit upright, and the task of keeping us alive requires infinitely more energy than that." He sighed, and stuck the cigarette in his mouth, leaving it hanging there as he stared flatly out the window  
  
into the perpetual London rain.  
  
I am trying to break your heart, his mind added.  
  
"I have one good nerve left, and /everything/ is on it right now," he said, finally, "whether it means to be or not."  
  
Robin nodded, saying nothing as she stood. This was either her way of saying she understood, or he'd just hurt her feelings. Perhaps a bit of both. Twisting the mental knife in his gut, he noticed that he tended to do that a lot--hurt her feelings, that was.  
  
"I'll go take a bath," she said, evenly but somewhat brightly. "I'll get out of your hair." She turned to offer him a half-smile, something that seemed to say that it was okay, and that she appreciated him explaining why he was acting the way he was acting for once, but something in her eyes was saying that it shouldn't have been that way between them, anyway. "You should go back to sleep, maybe," she advised.  
  
"Perhaps," he said, staring out the window, brain half-heartedly reeling.   
  
--------------------  
  
  
  
Because he /was/ mean.   
  
Amon's frank words echoed off the walls of Robin's brain. He was mean, wasn't he? He was not a monster, and he wasn't unusually, bitingly cruel--but he wasn't ever very nice, either. Well, to say that would be a lie. He was perfectly capable of being a normal human being when he wanted to.   
  
That was the catch. When he /wanted/ to. And that struck Robin as not being very often at all. Amon seemed to garner secret pleasure out of being curt and intimidating to people he didn't know, and aloof and unsociable to the point of meanness to people he did know. He didn't even seem to ever be friendly to Nagira, and Nagira was his older brother. Robin bit her lip, unable to keep her mind from straying to an inevitable topic whenever she wondered about Amon and how  
  
he treated people--Touko. Had he been that cold and impersonable with the woman he'd been seeing? She couldn't help but wonder. Touko and he had not seemed happy, ever. In a strange twist of fate, Robin had noticed that Touko actually seemed /happier/ when she wasn't around Amon, judging from the few short glimpses of her ex-partner and Touko together  
  
that she'd seen.   
  
The bath water, once so hot it was almost painful to Robin's white skin, had become semi-lukewarm. She knew how to fix that; due to the fact that she was often in the habit of soaking in the bathtub for one to two hours at a time (much to Amon's sometimes irritation; he was in and out of a shower within fifteen minutes). Slipping one of her feet down to the drainplug, she pulled up on it slightly with her toes and watched the water level start to drop as the tub began to drain.  
  
Once the water reached a point that was a few inches lower than it had been to begin with, she plugged the drain again and turned the hot water tap back on.   
  
Why did Amon seem to be so /irritated/ by her, sometimes? Robin suspected it had to do with the fact that sometimes he realized that he'd given up his life to, in a way, follow the whims of a fifteen year old girl, and he got bitter. The fact that he /had/ given up his life as he knew it to help her showed that somewhere, deep within him, there was a huge capacity for kindness and loyalty, but sometimes with the way he acted...it was easy to forget that.   
  
Sometimes she wondered if he saw her as a human being or a chore. Sometimes he acted like she was something that had /happened/ to him, and what was even more horrible was that sometimes she thought he /meant/ to evoke the feelings within her that he evoked. Not that she'd ever come out and told him that he'd blatantly hurt her feelings on a number of occasions, but sometimes, she just got the horrible feeling that it had been his /intention/ to hurt her feelings in  
  
such a manner. Why he would want to do such a thing, Robin did not know. She hoped secretly and fervently that she was just being paranoid, that Amon would never want to intentionally hurt her. He'd saved her life when he'd been ordered directly not to, he'd hidden her away from harm, he'd gone out of his way to help her.  
  
But then, inevitably, a small part of her brain countered: he was going to /kill/ you, once. He Hunted you, once.  
  
But she was still alive, wasn't she? She'd never been able to figure out why. Robin had fully expected to die that night above Nagira's law office, staring down the barrel of Amon's gun. She knew that being Hunted didn't mean she would die, but there had been an awful feeling in her gut that night that she was going to die. Hoping against hope, she'd appealed to the goodness that she was convinced had to be within Amon--the compassion, the pity. She hadn't seen too much of it exhibited by him up until that point, and the look in his eyes gave her no reason to believe that /anything/ she said was going to sway him.   
  
It helped to hope against hope, sometimes. Because not only had Amon lowered his gun, but he'd performed a strange about-face, as well. SOLOMON's most loyal operative in its Japan office, one of their pet killers trained in their own homeland of Europe had turned that night and bit the hand that fed him. He'd bitten it hard. He'd bitten it clean off, Robin thought. Amon's actions were something that SOLOMON had obviously expected out of someone like her, due to how quickly  
  
they'd turned against her. But Amon--Amon had seemed like a SOLOMON-lifer, someone who would kill and kill and kill for the organization until he was old enough and respected enough to come back to the mother office in Italy and sit on the council along with people like Juliano. That would have been the life that Robin would have envisioned for Amon until he'd suddenly and violently changed his destiny.  
  
Now, she wasn't sure where her destiny ended and his began, their fates had become so intertwined. Every day they stayed alive and free from SOLOMON only put them in further over their heads together, only twisted the separate strands of their destinies into a single rope.  
  
Robin's bath was near scalding again, and she turned the water off, sinking down into it with a small sigh.   
  
Nothing was simple, anymore. Not that it had ever been that simple, but it /had/ been simpler once before. Before their separate lives had ended. Now it was all just a big mess. From out somewhere in the hotel room, Robin heard the harsh, electronic beeping of Amon's cell phone, and then his heavy footfalls. It had to have been Nagira; he was the only person who could contact them. Robin twisted around in the water, her thin knees knocking together as she drew them up  
  
and out of the water. She was white, so very white. Would--/could/--anyone ever, one day, look at her and see something beautiful, and not a too-thin, strange, pale girl?  
  
Robin sank down in the bathwater a bit more, her next thought so quiet it was almost lost in the white noise of her brain: could /he/ ever find me beautiful, and not a mere annoyance?  
  
He was knocking on the door and Robin jerked upright in the water reflexively. It was as if he'd somehow intuitively known that she had been thinking about him right then. "Yes?" she called, feeling strange. Amon usually left her alone while she was in the bath unless he was telling her to stop taking her time.  
  
"Close the shower curtain," he said sternly, through the door. "Nagira wants to speak with you, now. Apparently it's /urgent/," he said, sounding vaguely put out, as if anything Nagira would have to say to Robin couldn't possibly be so urgent that it couldn't wait until the girl got out of the bath. "I'm going to come in in a second."  
  
Robin blinked, confused. "Oh." She reached over quickly and grabbed one edge of the shower curtain and pulled it across the metal bar above her with a loud clinking, rattling noise. The bathtub and herself were suddenly shrouded in weird half-darkness, and she sat there unmoving for a millisecond. "Okay," she called, and the door opened, bringing with it a gust of cold air that flooded over the top of the curtain rod, down into Robin's swampy sanctuary.   
  
"Jesus," Amon murmured, right on the other side of the shower curtain, sending a slight thrill through Robin. "Are you trying to cook yourself in here?"  
  
"No," she replied, dumbly, sticking her hand out of the shower curtain, right near the wall, careful not to let any light in. "Um, here." The phone was placed into her hand, and then, much to her shock, Amon did not leave. He stayed right where he was and waited. Obviously, he was waiting for her to be done so he could retreive his phone.   
  
"He-hello?" Robin asked of the phone, unsurely, still a bit distracted by Amon's presence on the other side of the shower curtain.   
  
"Hey, kiddo," Nagira said, cheerfully. "He's standing right there breathing down your neck, isn't he?" he asked immediately afterwards.  
  
"Well, not /exactly/, but...yes," Robin replied, hoping that Amon wasn't listening in on the conversation by way of his Craft.   
  
Nagira had apparently guessed the same exact thing. "Tell that jerk to get out of the bathroom and wait outside for the phone back," he said. "And tell him no fair listening in with that damn super-hearing of his--and make sure you tell him off for hanging out in the bathroom, anyway," Nagira snickered. "Doesn't he have any decency, hanging out in the room while you're bathing?"  
  
Robin couldn't help but turn pink at Nagira's teasing comment. She looked towards the shower curtain, clearing her throat. "Nagira says you need to get out," she said, towards where she knew Amon was standing. "And he says you're not allowed to listen in with your Craft, either."  
  
"And? And?" Nagira piped insistently in her ear. Robin sighed, turning pinker.  
  
"And he wonders if you have any decency because you're in the bathroom while I'm bathing," she added, and that apparently was all she needed to say to chase Amon out without a word. The door closed firmly behind him.   
  
Robin tittered for a moment. "Why did you want to talk to me?" she said into the phone, after the pause.   
  
"You two are going to fly into Iceland tomorrow night," Nagira informed her, without preamble. "I'm going to meet you there."  
  
"/What/?" Robin whispered, sinking into her bath water further, feeling secretive. No /wonder/ he didn't want to tell Amon. Amon would have never allowed it; he would have hung up on Nagira and packed up their things and moved he and Robin somewhere new that very instant. "Amon will be furious. He's not going to let you."  
  
"You forget which one of us is the big brother," Nagira said, matter-of-factly. "You--and he--forget which one of us used to do the beating-the-other-one-up when we were kids. I'm going to do it whether or not Amon /lets/ me. He can not let me all he wants. The fact of the matter is that I'm worried sick about you two and I'm tired of sitting here on my ass in Japan doing nothing, waiting every day for a phone call that one of you is dead--or waiting for the day that I stop /getting/ phone calls."  
  
"Are you going to stay with us?" Robin asked, whispering. She feared that Amon was right outside the door, or worse: that he was sitting across the room, flexing his Craft and intensifying his hearing, growing angrier and angrier by the moment with what he was hearing.   
  
"For a while," Nagira replied. "I can't just pack up and leave Japan forever. I've got responsibilities here. But I can get away for a week or so. Who knows?" he said, his voice sounding suddenly grim, as grim as Robin had ever heard it sound. "It may be the last time I see both of you alive, my favourite witch kid and my baby brother."  
  
Robin shook her head, feeling choked up somewhat. It wasn't like Nagira to show such outward emotion, and she found it made her emotional, as well. "Amon and I are very safe, Nagira," she reassured, although sometimes she wasn't so sure. "We'll be fine, so don't worry about that. It would be nice to see you, though." She blinked, staring at the wall mistily. "It would be nice to see /anyone/. We might as well be dead, Nagira."  
  
She could almost /hear/ him smiling on the other end of the phone line, a million miles away, on a different island. "Aw, cheer up. I let you get all depressed with my mushy, sentimental talk. I know better than to think that you two would be dead--that brother of mine is like a damn cockroach. You look so sad all the time anyway--I can't stand to think that you might be frowning now, because of me. Let Amon do all the frowning, alright? God knows he does enough for all of  
  
us. You concentrate on smiling, kid."  
  
Robin smiled slightly, in spite of herself. "You're in a good mood," she noted, in wonder. Two brothers, like night and day.  
  
"I'm drunk," Nagira replied, and Robin suddenly realized that maybe they weren't as night and day as they always seemed. "Don't worry. I'm gonna meet you two in Iceland tomorrow--whether or not Amon knows it--and then I'm going to help you find that woman, and then I'll get out of your hair. Maybe I can convince you two to go out and do something fun while I'm there, too."  
  
"Amon won't go out, anymore," Robin informed Nagira, and suddenly she was recalling Amsterdam all over again. Was it only a little over a day ago that it had happened, the Hunt at the concert hall? It seemed like so long ago. "It's too dangerous."  
  
Nagira pshawed. "SOLOMON's grip on Iceland is non-existant. The country's only got two hundred-something thousand people in it, Robin; it's so tiny it's not even worth SOLOMON's time. I /don't/ think you guys will have a problem there and by /God/, I'm going to get you out while I'm there. It's what I do best, you know--cause fun to occur."  
  
Robin was smiling fully then, unable to keep herself from feeling jittery with excitement. "Alright. I suppose it'd be fine, then. So, when will we see you?"  
  
"This is where you're going to call Amon back to get the phone from you, and I'm going to work all that out with him. Just you two flying to Iceland, you see. He's not going to know about me, not until he sees me, anyway." Nagira was laughing, then, whisky and cigarettes written all over his voice. "Call him back."  
  
Robin did so, and she was glad that the shower curtain was up not only because she was in the bathtub naked, but because she had a smile on her face that would have immediately made Amon suspicious. He seemed to have a suspicious joy detector or something embedded in his brain.  
  
Tomorrow they would be in Iceland. And tomorrow, they would see Nagira.  
  
She and Nagira could deal with Amon's reaction after it happened. 


	7. The Argument

A/N: MS Word does not seem to work for me no matter WHAT I do with it (reinstall the fucker, download patches, etc.). I'm at the end of my rope with the damn thing, and I've been trying various ways to get my writing out. The problems I'm encountering the most are the lack of spell check and some formatting problems (as you can see with the last chapter, things look a little wonky at some points but I rearranged things for the better part of an hour and that's the best I could do). But whatever. The show must go on and I must continue to churn out bad, overly-dramatic, OOC writing because it HAUNTS MY BRAIN like a two-dollar whore stakes out a street corner. Or something. Flarg.  
  
Oh, yeah. And the titles of my chapters are song titles by various bands--usually, they don't have any direct correlation to what's happening in the chapter. It's usually just the name of the song that happens to be playing on the stereo at that moment in time. ^^ Just wanted to let people know, in case they were curious. Not that anyone probably was, but whatever. Let me have my delusions.  
  
--------------------  
  
Leaving London had been a whirlwind of fervent, secretive activity. After doing a bit of research through the internet with his laptop, Amon performed various grumblings and some gun-loading. Robin had watched him with a curious, excited air.  
  
"So? What's Iceland like?" she'd asked him as he sat there, loading his second handgun for use--he rarely ever carried the second one on him, unless he thought he might really need it. Overkill purposes, she assumed, or perhaps for if the first one ran out of ammunition.  
  
"Sparsely populated and volcanic," Amon had replied, dryly. "Not as cold as one would think, either, but still considerably colder than here. Temperatures for the week are right around or below freezing, but there's a good deal of wind. I can't make any sense of the language."  
  
Robin hadn't been able to resist cracking a little joke at Amon's expense. "The language angered you so much that you're up in arms about it?"  
  
He had stopped fussing with the gun, given her a /look/, and then went back to the gun. "No," he'd started, sounding mildly irritated. "I'm up in arms because we have to go out. Both you and I need sufficient winter clothes and I'm not waiting until we're there to do it."  
  
"Oh," Robin had replied, sounding put-out as well. An expedition into the streets of London for, of all things, winter clothes, didn't wave her flag at all. She hadn't really understood why, in the face of all the danger they'd been in while in London before, Amon refused to wait to buy winter supplies--but then again she'd realized that she rarely ever understood /anything/ that Amon did.   
  
So off into danger they'd gone, and shockingly and thankfully, met none. That didn't mean that they hadn't gone about their tasks in London with abnormal speed and an almost ridiculous level of paranoia. (The clerks at one of the stores they'd stopped at more than likely thought they were paranoid schizophrenics, but oh well.) Both Robin and Amon had already, in their possession, enough long-sleeved shirts, boots, and gloves to get them by. Robin was also possessed of a bizarre number of scarves that she'd started to collect somewhere along the way (much to Amon's somewhat chagrin--he had always warned her against collecting too many things, hampering a quick move). What they had both really needed was a good, heavy, winter coat, and they'd gotten those. Robin's was a bit big for her, but after nearly thirty minutes of looking and trying on about fifteen different coats she, Amon, and the two clerks realized that there just wasn't /anything/ that was going to fit the girl properly. Coats were purchased.   
  
"Do you need a hat?" he'd asked Robin as they stood there, and she'd shook her head negative.  
  
"I've got one," she'd assured, and that had Amon grumbling again about how much /stuff/ she was starting to accumulate.  
  
Back to the hotel they'd gone, where Robin had abused room service priviledges as per usual, and eaten like there was no tomorrow. Amon had more picked at his food, seemingly not hungry, and grumbled about how the forks were too small. He had just been grumbly that night, in general. Bored and forced to be distant by Amon's abnormally bad mood, Robin had resigned herself to flipping through the channels on the TV, giggling at British comedy (she couldn't help it, the stuff was so ridiculously silly). Amon had grumbled about how he hated British comedy, how it wasn't funny at all. Robin had commented that she didn't know that he found anything funny at all, and he'd favoured her with another patented /look/, and that had been enough to make her grumble somewhat and turn off the TV.  
  
Sleep came for Robin not long after that and Amon had stayed up all night, as per usual, not doing anything in particular, really. Dawn came and Robin had awoken, and Amon had gone to sleep. While Amon slept, Robin amused herself with more British comedy and had eventually decided right around the time that Amon usually awoke that abusing her room service priviledges one more time couldn't hurt things any. Amon had awoken to Robin munching on eggs and toast, and had motivated himself to munch on eggs and toast as well, smoking cigarettes afterward. He had pointedly ignored the way that Robin had decided that it was in her best interests to have a cigarette, as well.  
  
They'd checked out of the hotel with the same level of paranoid secrecy that they'd checked in and placed themselves into a cab. Bouncing along to the airport, Robin had been struck suddenly by a thought that she'd never had before.  
  
"Amon?" she'd whispered to him, in the back seat of the cab as his slightly wincing eyes (Craft-caused, no doubt) scanned around the car continuously. "How do you get guns through airport security all the time?" she'd whispered even more quietly. The cabbie didn't seem to be paying any attention to them, anyway.  
  
"Very carefully," he'd replied, non-descriptively, and that was that. The mystery wasn't really any more solved than it had been before.  
  
Heathrow International Airport; a giant, British, bustling mess. They'd moved through the crowds unnoticed, like they'd been born to do it; gone through security without any hitches whatsoever (Robin wondering how in the /world/ he did it), checked in, gone to their gate, and then boarded their plane.   
  
That had been that. No problems, no hitches. And now they were on a plane somewhere over a lot of water--the ocean, Robin's stomach churning to look down upon it--en route to Iceland. Robin's stomach churning was partially due to the fact that she was, once again, somewhat surrounded by ocean and the fact that she was in nervous anticipation of meeting Nagira at some point in Iceland. They were flying into Iceland's capital, the only place to fly into in Iceland as far as Robin knew. The city called Reykjavík, a place that Robin couldn't imagine much less pronounce. Turning away from the window, she looked over at Amon, who was actually immersed in a Japanese copy of what appeared to be a Carlos Castaneda novel. Where he'd procured that, she had no idea, but he did look pretty immersed.  
  
"How do you pronounce the name of the city where we're going?" she asked quietly, using the strange hushed-voice that all human beings feel somehow compelled to use while on an airplane. Amon did not look up from his book.   
  
"I don't know," he answered simply. Robin furrowed her brow. "Their language makes no sense," he continued, still not looking up from his book. His mood had improved considerably the moment they were in the air, away from London.   
  
"You don't even have an idea?" she persisted, and he shook his head, turning a page.  
  
"Use phonics," Amon quipped, his bizarre sense of dry humour surfacing. That was how Robin knew he was in a far better mood--hiis sarcasm had returned. She figured that perhaps it was a good thing that he was in a better mood because that meant that perhaps his mood wouldn't end up being /so/ bad when he discovered Nagira. If Amon had still been in a bad mood when they'd landed in Iceland, Robin had actually shuddered to think how much further downhill his mood could have gone when he'd discovered that Nagira would be waiting for them there. "Sound it out," he added, a moment later, causing Robin's brow to furrow further.  
  
"That doesn't help," she replied bluntly, and he shrugged. "What's that book about?" she tried, testing his mood to see how good it actually /was/. If he talked, he was in a good mood. If he talked and his words were more oft than not sarcastic, then he was in a /very/ good mood. This was how Robin had learned to judge his emotions through his words.  
  
"An insane man with terrible drug habits who disguises them as enlightenment, then pawns them off to the general public," came his reply. "Most people at his point are either dead or homeless. I'm impressed that he actually was able to stay coherent enough to write a book."  
  
Robin let out a little sigh of relief, although she was pretty sure that he wouldn't have known that it was a sigh of relief. He was in a /very/ good mood, and that boded well for what would happen ahead.  
  
She was convinced that if he knew that they were flying into Iceland to meet his older brother, Amon would have gotten up, walked to the cockpit of the plane, and turned it back around to London. She didn't think he knew how to fly a plane but she was sure that he would make a point of it to learn how to right then and there, if he knew that Nagira was at their destination.  
  
Nagira. Nagira in Iceland. Them, in Iceland. Someone familiar; a shard from a life long-ago shattered. A shard to grab onto and squeeze into her palm until it cut her and she bled and she couldn't forget it, ever. A little normalcy in an otherwise otherworldishly strange life.  
  
Robin's stomach produced butterflies with the soaring joy of the prospect. Next to her, Amon read on in oblivion.  
  
--------------------  
  
There was no /way/, ever, ever, in the whole entire /world/ that the strange noises coming out of the intercom system at the airport in Reykjavík could be a language. Robin simply couldn't comprehend it. It sounded like someone with a mouthful of marbles and no tongue trying to speak Dutch, Swedish, and Finnish all at the same time. Signs in English and the language-that-was-not-a-language were plentiful and scattered about, and boasted words that were longer than her arm like they were nothing. Robin did a double-take, her fervent eye-search for Nagira momentarily forgotten--did that word over there even have any /vowels/ in it? Was that three y's in a row that she saw? "We're on another planet," she murmured to Amon in wonder.  
  
"It would seem so." He was busy adjusting his bag, after having put on his coat; a big black affair with thick lining. His hair was pulled back out of his face by way of a rubber-band, an action that still struck Robin as very strange and unfamiliar even though she'd seen him do it a handful of times by then. He had ears. And sideburns. Very peculiar, indeed. Robin followed his cue and donned her own coat, a similiarly thick-lined dark army green coat, complete with heavy fur lining around the hood. It was big on her to the point of almost obscuring her hands, and she felt like a goofy five-year-old-child playing dress up in her father's clothes. She reshouldered her ruck sack and went after Amon, somewhat unbalanced by her bag (which was growing in weight with the more items she accumulated, true).   
  
Amon was walking along in that loping, stalking style of his, and Robin somewhat bumbled along after him, natural grace hampered by the fact that her coat was too big for her, her bag was too heavy for her, and that her eyes were busily scanning anywhere and everywhere for a tall, semi-carbon copy of Amon. He hadn't specified whether he would be meeting them at the airport or if he would be locating them later, but Robin figured that he would probably meet them at the airport due to the facts that Nagira knew both what time she and Amon's flight arrived, and how hard they were to find in normal life.   
  
Nothing, nothing, nowhere. Customs--deceptively easy to pass, Amon's guns hanging in the back of Robin's mind along with giant question mark. She went through the motions of customs blankly, not really paying attention, fumbling with her assumed passport as she looked around, wide-eyed.  
  
Unfortunately, Amon noticed her ill-ease. "Something wrong?" he asked her as soon as they were away from the customs station, leaning in. Just as she had learned to trust his innate sense for danger, he had learned to watch her somewhat as well--like a cat or a dog before an earthquake. She shook her head, knowing she was going to have to lie and that she wasn't very good at it.   
  
"This place is just strange, that's all," she replied somewhat airily, unable to meet his eyes. Her eyes were too busy looking about. Also unfortunately, what she had not wanted at all happened--Amon hadn't really accepted her explanation and became lightly wary, himself. He more than likely figured that Robin sensed some kind of threat. He would have died if he'd know what she was /really/ looking for.  
  
Amon didn't have long to be in the dark about what was going on because a split second after Robin spotted Nagira standing there, against a pillar in the walkway, staring straight at them, Amon spotted him and actually stopped dead in his tracks.  
  
Robin, too overcome with joy at seeing Nagira actually /standing/ there, didn't even give her brain a spare second to worry about Amon's reaction. Instead she hurried over to her shocked ex-partner's older brother as best she could while being ill-fitted, over-weighed, and excited beyond belief. Nagira's face broke into a smile as soon as he saw her hurrying over to him and Robin dropped her bag on the ground near him and couldn't resist the urge to throw her arms around him.  
  
Nagira hugged her back, apparently ignoring his younger brother for the moment--and probably for good reason--large arms clasped around her small frame. "Hey, kid," he murmured, giving her a little squeeze. "Is that coat too big for you or are you shrinking?"  
  
Robin gave a little giggle, feeling tears biting at her eyes for some strange reason, and fighting hard to squelch them. "It's too big," she replied truthfully, and looked up at him, smiling. God, it felt so wonderful to see someone again--someone, anyone. A reminder that Amon and she were still people, that they were ghosts in the memories of people long-ago, in a land far, far away.  
  
"Huh. I was worried there for a second that maybe Amon wasn't feeding you enough," Nagira cracked, and then looked over her head towards said Amon. "He does not look happy."  
  
Robin, suddenly remembering, suddenly coming back to reality, dared to turn and look at Amon. He was still standing there, except now his arms were folded over his chest and there was a completely blank, unreadable look on his face. Square jawline, flat stare, straight eyebrows--he wasn't just unhappy, he was /furious/. He stared at them for a moment more and then started to walk again--not just walking, but really stalking, moreso than he usually did.   
  
Amon stalked right past them without a word and Robin cringed, dread filling her. Nagira, however, did not seem intimidated in the least, and instead stepped away from the pillar and Robin slightly, looking after his brother. "Oh, /what/?" he called, sounding amused and teasing. "No hug for your big brother?"  
  
Amon's only reply was to stop and turn halfway, looking back at both Nagira and Robin with a look that seemed to tell them that he found their very existence distasteful, and then he resumed walking, not looking back. If such a thing was possible, yet more dread flooded Robin's insides.  
  
"Oh, he's going to go sulk and be difficult," Nagira called after his brother, obviously still not ruffled by the show of anger. "What a way to treat visiting family! Kids these days, I tell you." Nagira dropped his hands which he had cupped around his mouth to help his words travel, and then turned to Robin with raised eyebrows. "I suppose we'd better go chase him down," he said to her, with a sigh. "He's /so/ easily upset, I swear. I wonder, sometimes, which one of you two is the one that's fifteen."  
  
Robin could say nothing in reply. She was too busy wondering if Amon had any patience left for her at all, after this incident. 


	8. Temporary Like Achilles

They found him outside, near the arrivals and departures car driveways, anger radiating off him in almost tangible waves. The wind was cold and fast and it whipped around them carelessly, whipped around all other pedestrians carelessly. Nagira wasted no time in walking up to his brother, undaunted by the anger-forcefield.   
  
"Nice to see you, too," he started it all off as Robin came up behind him, timidly, taking great care to remain mostly hidden behind Nagira as he spoke. Amon said nothing. Nagira made a little psh noise and extracted a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket--that ridiculous white coat, apparently he thought it well enough suited to the biting wind--and held it in his hand for a moment, uselessly. "So, that's it? You're just never going to speak again? That's very wise and mature of you, Amon." He turned to Robin with a grin, and Robin wondered how _anyone_, even Nagira, could brush Amon's intensity off so easily. "Wouldn't you agree, Robin?"  
  
Amon finally looked at Nagira; a start. His face was calmer, now; less of the angry mask, but his eyes spoke murder. "I don't believe you." That was all he had to say, apparently.  
  
Nagira scoffed, digging in his other pocket--presumably for a lighter. "And why not? You've known me long enough now to know that I'm just _full_ of surprises."   
  
"Have you become so full of surprises that there's no room left for a brain?" Amon snarled in return, apparently tired of being semi-civil. "Think about it if you can, Nagira. If SOLOMON's paying attention to you--which they probably are, considering you're my brother, then they're more than likely going to wonder why you suddenly disappeared off to Iceland." Amon's voice was still a snarl, albeit a low snarl, leaning in close to Nagira as he spoke. Robin, meanwhile, was still pretending like she didn't exist. "They're going to think, and they're going to pull out their little maps and their little information reports and they're going to start putting the puzzle together. They're going to look at the fact that Robin and I probably just fled the Continent, to the best of their knowledge, all of about _three_ days ago, and then they're going to look and notice that we haven't been spotted or caught in Iceland yet." Amon drew back for a moment, teeth clenched; Robin could tell that from the way his jaw was set. "They're going to put it together, Nagira," Amon reaffirmed, leaning back in. "And then you, me, _and_ her are going to be as you would probably put it, Nagira, in a _world of shit_."  
  
Nagira didn't even seem ruffled by Amon's tirade, and merely shrugged, attemtping in vain to light a cigarette in the strong wind. Finally, after a great deal of hand-cupping he got it lit, and exhaled a cloud of smoke with satisfaction. "Not likely. SOLOMON's not interested in me in the least, for the most part. I've been a good little boy, lately. And I didn't _fly_ directly into Iceland. I'm not a moron, Amon." He laughed a little, nursing his cigarette once more. "You forget that I'm just as good at being Secret Agent Man as you are. I think it's in our blood."  
  
Silence.  
  
"I think you're overreacting," Nagira said, non-chalantly, and then looked over to Robin, who wondered why her invisible disguise wasn't working. "Wouldn't you agree?"  
  
"Yes, do ask her," Amon snapped. "Since Robin apparently thinks this whole thing is just one big game, I'd be fascinated to hear her take on the situation and my overreacting. The next time our lives are in dire danger, I think I shall be very calm about it and let her handle it, since she seems to want to handle everything else either with or _without _my knowledge."  
  
Robin's throat constricted and her stomach felt leaden. "Amon, I didn't mean to--"  
  
"Robin, there are a great many things that you shouldn't _mean_ to do, and furthermore, shouldn't _do_ at all. Taking chances with our lives is one of them. I don't know about you, but I've worked too long and too hard at staying alive to die." He looked over at her for the first time since he'd begun addressing her; eyes hard, tone cutting. "But this isn't anything new to you, now is it? Haven't you heard these words come out of my mouth before, in various guises? And as usual I find myself wondering why I've even wasted my breath because it all just seems to go in one ear and out--"  
  
"Hey, damnit," Nagira interrupted, grabbing his brother's shoulder, effectively forcing Amon to look him in the eyes. "Calm down. If you're going to let one of us have it, let it be me. This whole damned thing was my idea and I more or less dragged her into it. I was going to do it anyway, regardless of whether or not she knew about it or if she even agreed with it. So quit being a bully." Nagira made a face then, a weird kind of half-confused-half-amused face. "And quit acting like her dad."  
  
Robin was thankful for Nagira interrupting Amon's angry tirade on her behalf. Unobtrusively, she cleared her throat, trying to loosen the gunk there. She was _very_ thankful that Nagira had interrupted and grabbed Amon's leash, reeling him back in--she wasn't sure how much more of his speech she could have taken before she'd started to cry. For that, she felt like an immature, irresponsible little girl but she found that she couldn't help it. The emotion had been welling up within her no matter how she'd been trying to fight it; with every single word more that Amon had spoken she'd felt her despair level growing. Had he ever outrightly berated her like that before? Robin couldn't recall, but even if he had--what had just been happening had hurt like it was the first time.  
  
And what was worse, she feared, she'd probably just done substantial damage to the benevolently symbiotic relationship that she had with Amon. It'd been getting somewhat better with time; their ways of interacting had improved, their understanding of each other, their level of trust and faith in one another had increased. Robin feared that she'd just burned half of the bridge that had been slowly building its way across the gap between them. She felt like she'd just burned half of it--and it hadn't even really been half-completed to begin with.   
  
"She should've known better," was all Amon said, after a brief silence. To Robin's surprise, Nagira's face went from calm and shadow-smiling to taut and slightly angry.  
  
"Hey. I said knock it _off_," Nagira said firmly, and to Robin's even greater surprise, Amon obeyed.  
  
Truly strange dynamic between two brothers, indeed.  
  
--------------------  
  
The hotel was nice, very nice. Not, by any means, the nicest one that she'd ever stayed in since the whole life of running had begun, but very nice just the same. It was pleasant in a strange way, just as everything she'd seen so far in the odd country had been. During the taxi ride to the hotel Robin had spent most of her time staring out the window over Nagira's shoulder (having found herself, by virtue of being small, smashed into the middle of the seat between Amon and Nagira--who were large enough to where they would never in a million years have been able to fit into the middle seat). Everything was bright, friendly, almost glowing in the cold, brisk air. The city seemed alive and bustling, despite its relatively small size. Robin had also noticed, with some amusement, that almost _everyone_ she saw through the car window was some manner of fair-haired and pale-skinned, and on the shorter end of the height spectrum. Amon and Nagira, by contrast, being dark and tall, stuck out like twin sore thumbs.  
  
Nagira had arrived in Iceland before them, and had booked rooms for them already, having known of their arrival. Their room conjoined his, and was decently-sized. Thankfully Nagira had ensured that their room had two beds--something that Robin had worried about from the moment they'd walked in the door to the lobby. It would have been just like Nagira to tease them by only getting one bed; and then what was worse was that Amon would never take the bed and let Robin take the couch if there was only one bed. He always let Robin have it and the sight of Amon's tall, large frame scrunched up on hotel sofas was almost heart-breaking to her. She doubted he could have possibly slept well on them and had even ventured once to ask him, but naturally he'd denied any type of discomfort or annoyance. Once, she'd discovered that he'd moved from the couch to the floor during the course of his dawn-time sleeping, and she'd known right away that he'd lied; that sleeping on the couches obviously bothered him a lot if he preferred the floor to the couch.  
  
Robin's cheeks coloured suddenly. They'd shared a bed, two or three times, but it had been due to the fact that she'd crawled into his in sudden bouts of fear or sleeplessness. Miraculously, Amon had allowed it every time--he'd startled awake, of course, but then just looked at her on the opposite side of the bed and gone back to sleep. Never touching, never sleeping within extremely close proximity of each other--just one on either side of the bed, Robin taking comfort from the simple fact that he was nearby and nothing could happen to her.  
  
"_Robin_." Nagira's voice snapped into her consciousness, startling her. She tore her eyes from the blank spot in the room she'd been staring at as she'd let her mind wander and turned to face him, a trifle embarassed.   
  
"Yes?" she asked moving towards him as she spoke. He smiled at her.  
  
"Sorry to interrupt your zoning-out time, but I was wondering if you were hungry at all." He grinned at the way her eyes seemed to suddenly light up. "I'm getting pretty hungry myself and I was going to call up some room service---you should take a _look _at some of the stuff on the hotel menu. I don't think I've even heard of some of it before."  
  
"Never mind that it's completely unpronounceable," Amon's voice echoed in from his brother's room, through the open double-door. "If you'd been planning on magically showing up here, aniki-san, you could've at least learned some of this damn language."  
  
Nagira rolled his eyes theatrically at Robin, shrugging. "I think he's going to hate us forever," he said in annoyance. "He could, at the very least, quit pouting. Whatever."  
  
Robin chose not to comment, but her mind found it odd that Amon had refered to Nagira as 'aniki-san'. True, it meant older brother--one of the many ways to say it--but it was usually reserved for an older _twin_ brother. Perhaps, Robin thought, Amon was cryptically acknowledging to Nagira that they were more alike than Amon sometimes let on. She followed Nagira back into his own room, where they discovered Amon sitting down in an overstuffed chair, apparently trying to make heads or tails of the menu with its long, Icelandic dish-names.  
  
"_So _sorry, Oou-sama," Nagira gushed, upon re-entering the room, dropping suddenly into an overly-dramatic bow in front of his younger brother, who merely looked up with a disinterested frown. "You may beat me for my negligence to make your life easier." Nagira stood up straight, and made a little face at Amon, who ignored it and looked back down to the menu. "That's why everything is in English too, because I'm assuming that a lot of people have difficulty understanding the language."  
  
"Perhaps," Amon said shortly. He had said a total of about four words to Robin since the airport and it was starting to make her a bit nervous. She suspected that Amon was doing it purposefully, to let her feel the full extent of his displeasure with her. Bravely, she walked up to him and peered over his shoulder at the menu, squinting somewhat. She needed her glasses sometimes to read--it depended largely on the lighting of the room.   
  
"Halibut soup?" Robin murmured, mostly to herself. "That sounds like it could be pretty good."  
  
"Any particular reason why you must hang over my shoulder?" Amon replied, brusquely.  
  
"To read the menu, since you're the one holding it," Nagira answered for Robin, coolly.   
  
Tense silence ensued. Robin, hurt at how Amon was acting; Amon irritated with both people in the room and the language; Nagira, irritated at how much of a brat his little brother could be. There was complete silence between all three of them, the only sounds being Nagira smoking as he sat in the overstuffed chair opposite Amon.   
  
"I want the marinated herring," Robin announced suddenly, her hurt and feelings of sadness temporarily displaced by the fact that the food on the menu sounded _amazing_. "It sounds delicious." She left her spot behind Amon and looked about, in vain, for another chair to sit in. There was a small table with four chairs on the other side of the room, but that was far away, and for some strange reason Robin was suddenly inexplicably lazy. There was a couch underneath the window, with a large, low table in front of it, but that obviously wasn't going to be very easily dragged or moved. Nagira patted the wide, cushioned arm of his chair, suddenly, looking at Robin, and she trotted over and seated herself on it. "It has onion, and laurel leaf, and sugar, and honey, and curry, and egg, and apple, and--"  
  
"Whoa, there, killer." Nagira was laughing slightly, and Robin looked at him, mildly bewildered. She looked over to Amon to discover that even _he_ had eased his bad mood enough to crinkle the corner of his eyes in amusement. "He _is_ trying to starve you, isn't he?" Nagira asked of Robin, who shook her head, embarassed by her vocal cravings for food. She couldn't help it if it sounded absolutely delicious, now could she?  
  
"The way she eats eats a hole right through my pocket," Amon commented suddenly, voice sardonic. Robin's ears perked--could Amon's mood be improving?  
  
Nagira looked up at Robin through a cloud of white-grey cigarette smoke, smiling at her, his face seeming _much_ older than Amon's--although that was perhaps because his smile lines were much more prominent from frequent use. They were there, visible, even when he wasn't smiling, making him look a few years older than he really was. Amon had no smile lines, no lines around his eyes, no lines anywhere on his face.  
  
The mask was perfect.  
  
"I," the smile-lined man began, "am going to have the crumbed flounder. That sounded pretty good to me."  
  
Robin felt her mood start to lift, even if Amon was still being bristly and angry with everyone and everything. Nagira's moods were infectuous--if he was nervous, so were you. If he was serious and down-to-task, so were you. If he was happy, so were you. One couldn't help it, or at least Robin couldn't. "I thought about ordering that," Robin said, venturing a tentative smile back. "It _did_ sound good."  
  
"Good food improves moods, you know," he said to her, grinding out a cigarette in the tray on the chair arm that Robin was not occupying. He was saying it to her, but his words were really meant more for his brother across from them, Robin thought.  
  
-------------------  
  
Moods _had_ improved slightly by the time they'd finished eating. Nagira had taken his sweet time with his food, even pausing in the middle of eating to take cigarette breaks. Robin, as per usual, had eaten as quickly and voraciously as she could while still being polite (prompting several amused run-of-the-mill "growing teenage girl" comments from Nagira). Amon had more of picked at his food (he hadn't been eating much lately, she'd noticed, but then again, he never seemed to eat very much anyway), leaving more than half a plate full with uneaten food.   
  
At some point after dinner, the older and more free-wheeling of the brothers had discovered that his room had a small cabinet and fridge stocked with several different kinds of alcohol, and decided that after-dinner drinks were in order. Amon, more than likely still smarting from his lapse into drink in Amsterdam, was adamant about his refusal of drinking anything. At first, at least. After a while it had become fairly obvious to Amon--and Robin, as well, who was watching the whole semi-argument unfold--that Nagira was never going to give it up until he shared a drink with his brother. Eventually Amon begrudgingly agreed to have a drink, and Nagira called room service up with coffee.  
  
Robin watched the free-wheeling brother pouring some type of alcohol into two cups of black coffee while she nursed her own cup of non-alcoholic coffee. He returned, smiling widely, and handed Amon his cup. Nagira was Nagira--he was not showing any signs of wear or tear, which amazed Robin slightly. She figured that he would have been fainted dead asleep already due to time difference but apparently time was of no importance to him, even though she was fairly sure that he'd probably been awake for close to 48 hours by that point.   
  
"Try this, Robin," he piped suddenly, thrusting his mug at her. She took it from him warily. "It'll put hair on your chest."  
  
"Just what she needs," Amon remarked into his cup, which, for all his protests, he appeared to be working right along on.   
  
Robin sipped and pulled a face not only at the taste, but the smell also. She handed the mug back to Nagira, a sour aftertaste lingering in her mouth. As Nagira laughed at her, she sought to remove said aftertaste by taking a drink from her own coffee. "What _is_ that?" Robin asked, after she'd annihilated the aftertaste to her satisfaction.  
  
"Irish coffee," Nagira replied cheerfully, to which he was rewarded with a blank look from the girl next to him.   
  
"Jameson Irish whisky and coffee," Amon informed her, speaking into his cup once more. Robin's face was still somewhat blank; she didn't know one type of alcohol from the next, except for perhaps wine.  
  
A few minutes later, it was noticed by older brother that baby brother needed a refill. More coffee was brought up by room service and Amon was once again connected to his cup after another mixing from Nagira. Vaguely, Robin found herself wondering when Amon had started to drink so much. Not that he'd been drinking a lot lately, but Robin couldn't ever really recall having seen him drink _anything_ before. Searching her brain, she remembered seeing him in Harry's often, what seemed like so long ago--he _had_ almost invariably had a drink in front of him, hadn't he? And Robin had stayed with Nagira long enough to know that he certainly wasn't a stranger to having a few drinks every day, as well as working overtime at polluting his lungs.  
  
The sound of Nagira's deep, jovial voice broke into her pseudo-reverie. "A little secret," he began, looking down into his own coffee cup, now almost empty. "Amon's got a weakness for whisky. Scotch, too. As a matter of fact, if I remember correctly...it _is_ a bottle of scotch you buy yourself every year on your birthday, isn't it?" he asked of Amon, who merely nodded.  
  
"Robin knows about that already," he added to the nod, a few seconds later. He was staring down into his mug as if he was wondering what it would look like if it had liquid in it, again--for it was empty, again.   
  
"He also gets chatty when he's drunk." Nagira was grinning like the Cheshire cat.  
  
Amon grumbled slightly and stood abruptly. Robin had thought for sure that Amon was going to go into their room and not emerge again, having gone to bed, but instead he walked over to the cabinet that Nagira had been producing alcohol from. "She's aware of that, as well." He began to shift the bottles around, looking at them. "How do you like that," he muttered, mostly to himself, it seemed. "Gin but no tonic. That's a classic."  
  
Robin blinked, mildly dazed. The situation felt surreal.  
  
Nagira didn't seem fazed in the least; but then again he often didn't seem fazed by much. Everything rolled off him, like he had a repellent coat. "Another little secret: this is why he and I don't hang out together more often. One of us or both of us usually ends up stinking drunk."  
  
Amon was inspecting a particular bottle. "There's ginger ale. And whisky."  
  
"Ah, a Horse's Neck," Nagira said, nodding sagely. "If you're going to make yourself one of those, why don't you make me one too, buddy?" His coffee cup, too, was empty now. As Amon went about preparing drinks (the young girl's mind reeled), Robin took the opportunity to turn to Nagira and catch his attention by clearing her throat. The lawyer looked over at her with his best 'how may I help you' look.  
  
She tried not to watch Amon out of sheer fascination and instead forced herself to rivet all her attention onto Nagira. "When will we go to meet this contact, here?" she asked, and was rewarded with a look of amusement.  
  
"Little Robin the taskmaster! Probably tomorrow," he said, accepting his drink from Amon. The ex-Hunter, meanwhile, sat back down in his chair with his own drink, and immediately began to work on draining it. Robin didn't know much about alcohol and how much it took to get a man of Amon's size drunk, but she did know that it probably wouldn't take long in any case with how he was drinking. "We're going to have to go a bit outside the city, here, so it'll be a bit of a day trip. Or, perhaps, depending on how he and I are feeling in the morning," here, he indicated Amon, "a late-afternoon trip."  
  
Robin digested this information, sipping her coffee. "Won't that be a bit dangerous? To go out on a trip, so far?"  
  
"Not really," Nagira said non-chalantly. "The country's not very big, and it sure as hell isn't very populated. Once we get out of the city, we probably won't be seeing much in the way of civilization."  
  
"I think she's talking about interference from SOLOMON," Amon interjected. A moment later he was digging in a pocket, searching for something. His hand emerged--the pack of cigarettes, now looking considerably worse for the wear.   
  
Nagira shook his head, reaching for his own cigarette pack. "Not likely. This place is like the Land SOLOMON Forgot. From what information I could get my hands on, they haven't set _foot_ into this country--at least not officially--since 1982." He nodded at the looks on both Robin and Amon's faces. "Yeah. That's a long damn time ago, FYI."  
  
Amon lit a cigarette and looked over at Robin over it quickly, his eyes flashing something that was halfway in between guilt and a warning. "Huh. Not officially, anyway," he murmured, watching the smoke spiral in the air in front of him. Smoke from Nagira's freshly lit cigarette began to mingle with Amon's smoke as well, and Robin thought that at that point, it didn't matter if there was a cigarette in her mouth or not--she was smoking by simply just being in the room with the brothers.

"I wonder why that is," Amon mused out loud--presumably as to why SOLOMON had skipped over the strange island in recent years.

"Maybe they don't like the language, either," Robin suggested, one of her rare forays into humour. The humour seemed lost on Amon but Nagira cracked a small smile.

Amon still looked serious, staring into space, thinking. It was as if he hadn't heard Robin's comment at all. "Or they just don't want anyone to know that they've been here. Luring people into thinking it's safe when it's not. That seems just like something SOLOMON would do."  
  
"You're fucking paranoid," Nagira said, dismissively.  
  
"You'd be fucking paranoid too," Amon countered flatly, the obscenity sounding slightly to Robin, especially coming from Amon's mouth. True, he swore; but hardly ever _that_ particular word. And Robin had noticed that he usually did not swear at all when talking to her. "You say this woman's not a witch, herself? No ties to SOLOMON?"  
  
"From what I hear tell. I don't know how she got mixed up with the whole business, but she appears to know people in all the right places--well, witches in all the right places," Nagira explained, gesturing vaguely. "Like I said before, it all seems pretty legit."  
  
Amon appeared to be thinking about something--either that, or he was having some minor Craft issues. "You're sure."  
  
Nagira looked exasperated and shot Robin a look, as if to ask her if he was _always_ like that, even though he knew his own brother full well enough to know that the answer was yes. "If I'm not right you can kill me, okay? And then you can let Robin dance on whatever shallow grave you toss me into afterwards."  
  
Robin didn't know whether to giggle or frown at his comment.  
  
"I'll probably end up having to kill _someone_, if this goes badly," Amon stated plainly. He was well more than half-way through his drink. "As usual. I wonder how many people I've killed by now in my lifetime."  
  
Both Nagira and Robin were silent for a moment, each taken aback by Amon's perhaps-but-not-sure-rhetorical question in their own ways. Robin said nothing, but Nagira chose to make light of the situation, perhaps for everyone's benefit. (Perhaps because none of them wanted to seriously contemplate how many people Amon had killed--Amon included.) "And lo, it begins! He speaks!"  
  
"You do enough talking for the both of us," Amon retorted. "Perhaps enough for the _three_ of us," he said, verbally including Robin, who had been silent for the majority of the conversation, silent. She was too busy looking discreetly back and forth between the two men who seemed to serve, in shifts, as caretakers in her life.   
  
Now that she looked at them in close proximity, both holding drinks and both smoking, they were startlingly similiar.  
  
"I have a question," Robin piped up suddenly, looking at both of them in turn. "If you're brothers, why does everyone call you--" here she pointed at Nagira, "--by the last name, and you--" here she didn't dare to point at at Amon, but instead looked at him, "--by your first name?"  
  
Nagira nodded thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair comfortably. "Well, first of all, I suppose people call me by my last name because Syunji's a painfully ridiculous name." He shrugged and said no more. It was an odd explanation, but one Robin would accept. She looked at Amon, who exhaled through his nose.  
  
"Secondly, we don't have the same last name," he added almost quickly. "And Syunji is a painfully ridiculous name."   
  
Robin's brow furrowed, even if she was mentally smiling at Amon's agreement about his brother's name. But wait--it kind of made sense to her, now; her face relaxing, recalling that the men in front of her were only half-brothers. But then just as soon as her face had relaxed, her brow furrowed up again. "Oh--wait." She was desperately scraping her brain for any tidbits to their familial past that Nagira or Amon might have given to her at various points in time, but was coming up with very little. "But...wait. Don't you two...share a..."  
  
Amon looked at her, evenly. "A father? Yes."  
  
"But Amon's mommy insisted that he take _her_ family name, and not our daddy's," the other brother picked up where Amon had left off, shrugging lackadaisically. "That's also how he got landed with _his_ painfully ridiculous name."  
  
Robin nodded somewhat, storing the information away in the section of her brain that was little more than a file cabinet of Amon fact-bits. Her brow furrowed a third time. "What is your last name, Amon?" she said curiously, and Nagira erupted into hysterical, deep, scratchy laughter. He carried on for a good half a minute or so, finally beginning to calm down after a bit, Amon and Robin staring at him.  
  
"She doesn't even know your last name?" Nagira chortled incredulously, staring at his brother with a particular glee. "This is the girl you depend on to watch your back and help keep you alive and you've never even told her your _last name_? You are one screwed up guy," he stated, and then chuckled to himself, as if remembering how funny it was all over again.  
  
Amon looked vaguely offended. "She never asked. Why should I have told her?" He looked over at Robin and blinked. "But now you've asked, so I suppose I must answer you. Novotne."  
  
Robin was flipping through the cards in the various file cabinets of her brain, searching through until she found the language file cabinet. In said file cabinet was her fairly extensive--almost fluent--knowledge of English and Japanese, and her completely fluent knowledge of Italian. There was also a liberal smattering of various other European languages that she'd been made to study while training with SOLOMON. "That's..." Her mind drew more blanks in attempting to place the origin of the last name. "...not Japanese," she finished, somewhat cowed.  
  
"Good observation," Amon quipped dryly; his good humour was coming back--probably greatly aided by alcohol. He was also growing somewhat talkative, Robin noticed. "It's Czech."  
  
"Amon's mommy's a European mutt," Nagira said.  
  
"_Was_," Amon countered, and the topic was effectively killed. Neither Nagira nor Robin was quite brave enough to venture further onto the topic of Amon's mother, something that was never heard about unless it was in a situation of extreme duress. Robin didn't think she'd ever get the whole story; she figured that Nagira knew it all, but she also figured that if Amon ever found out that Nagira had told her said story, he'd be rather disgruntled to put it mildly.  
  
"Well, in any case," Nagira said suddenly, brightly, as if he was physically grabbing the conversation and steering it away from the mysterious Novotne-mother, "Amon's about fifteen different nationalities rolled into one. That's probably why he knows about five billion languages."  
  
"I do not know five billion languages," Amon replied, matter-of-factly. "And I'm not fifteen different nationalities."  
  
Robin once again went back to the Amon file cabinet in her brain, searching through it--Amon _did_ have an uncanny grasp of more languages than anyone had any business knowing. SOLOMON certainly didn't provide their Hunters with that much language training, that she knew. "But you do know a lot of languages," she said to her ex-partner, who merely shrugged with his eyebrows. His face seemed...relaxed, somehow. He was at least moderately inebriated, if not hurtling along towards totally drunk. "But I didn't know that you were of European descent, too, Amon. So you're Czech _and_ Japanese?" The man got more and more interesting the more she learned of him, and that of course only made her want to learn more. It was like giving a dehydrated person salt water to drink--they would only dry out more and need more water.  
  
Amon made a 'heh' noise. "And French and Egyptian. My mother was a bit of a mutt, I suppose."  
  
Robin couldn't help but look at him then; couldn't help but give him a good, long look. His looks began to make a bit more sense to Robin, then; now she understood why he'd never looked in particularly Japanese, why he'd always seemed to be able to mix well wherever they went in Europe, why he'd always seemed perfectly at home in Japan with Japanese customs (most of which, despite her best efforts to embrace them, still completely baffled Robin). Amon Novotne--or, as Amon himself would probably introduce himself, clinging to Japanese tradition--Novotne Amon, even though the name didn't sound Japanese in the very slightest.  
  
"Ah," Robin remembered to murmur in reply, after a few moments of staring at Amon. She would have kept studying his features but as usual his magical sixth sense kicked in and he looked over at her suddenly, pinning her with a stare that almost burned her with its intensity. Her eyes moved on quickly as if they'd only settled on him momentarily to begin with.  
  
She did find it somewhat amusing, however, that Amon should be more Japanese in appearance than her and have a name that was so wholly un-Japanese, while Robin herself was about as far from Japanese in appearance as one could get--but she'd been the one to get stuck with a Japanese last name.   
  
Gaze wandering over to Nagira, she found him to watching Amon and herself with a distinctly pleased look on his face. "I knew he couldn't go on being mad at you forever," Nagira practically sang. "Now we can all get along and have a good time. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside to see my baby brother and my favourite witch kid alive and semi-amiable.  
  
--------------------  
  
Dawn. She awoke at dawn, as always.  
  
The room was almost unpleasantly chilly, and she shivered under her blankets and curled into a bit of a ball on her side. The room was a colour study of greys, whites, blacks, shadowing and the illusion of depth. Or perhaps that was just Robin's eyes playing tricks on her. For some reason, that morning, she was inundated with sleepiness; pondering snuggling up and falling back asleep for a bit didn't seem like such a bad idea. She _had_ stayed up rather late with Amon and Nagira, after all, and they had still been awake when she'd finally stumbled into bed, so numbly tired that her body refused to work properly and she might as well have been drunk.  
  
Amon and Nagira had just been plain drunk. It wasn't as easy to pin down a drunken Novtone as it was to pin down a drunken Nagira, but Robin had watched it happen.   
  
And now she couldn't fathom her ex-partner still being awake at this hour, as he usually was. But then again he was usually sober when he stayed up all night until dawn, waiting for her to awaken so he could sleep. And on top of the fact that she was for some strange reason, ridiculously tired (it was as if being happy the night before had sapped all her energy), Robin was freezing and the bed was warm. It all boiled down to the fact that her head felt fuzzy with lack of sleep and she didn't want to leave the bed.  
  
Amon be damned, this morning. Robin was going back to sleep. Maybe, she pondered, her act of sleep-sin made her a bad person, but she was too tired and warm to care. Sleep it was.  
  
But, she was to discover as soon as she rolled over, snuggling into the blankets further, that Amon didn't really_ need_ to be damned to be awake while she slept on.  
  
That was because he was sleeping right behind her, fully clothed, on top of the covers. He was laying so close to her that she bumped into him slightly face first when she rolled, earning herself a nose full of chest. The sight--and the feel--of him lying there in the very dim greyish-purple light almost made her squeak in shock. Instead she burrowed down into her covers and pretended that she was invisible.  
  
She seemed to be doing a lot of that, lately.  
  
Robin blinked rapidly, looking at the still-very-much-slumbering-in-spite-of-her-having-bumped-into-him form of Amon. _How _had he ended up in her bed? _Why_ had he ended up in her bed? She didn't even remember such a thing occurring during the night--how long had he been sleeping there for, anyway? She was further shocked that he had not awoken, anyway, upon her gentle impact with him. He really _was _asleep.  
  
It was dawn and Amon was sleeping in her bed. Not her in his, on the opposite side, after a nightmare or a night of sleeplessness. Him in _her_ bed, her body inches away from his. The familiar old burning sensation started up in her cheeks and ears with a fury.  
  
Too scared to move--not only because she didn't want to awaken him, but because she was afraid of ruining the moment--Robin laid there in heart-pounding, nervous silence, staring at him. Eventually, however, her breathing began to slow and her heart started to thud at a normal rate. God, he was so _close_. Sleeping, so unguarded--almost every fibre of Robin's being wanted to cuddle against him and go to sleep, yearning for the almost alien feel of his arms around her.   
  
She did no such thing, however. The wall that Amon had so carefully constructed around himself was present even when he wasn't busy building it, repairing it; was present even when his guard was relaxed and he was asleep.  
  
Robin listened to his breathing, watched his pulse fluttering at his neck, marveled at how he looked somehow younger while in somewhat mussy-haired sleep. Her mind and her body gradually came down from the panic high. He'd sought _her_ out, obviously, and it was no problem or fault of her own. She may have not had the courage to curl up against him, but he had found _her_ bed.  
  
Perhaps, Robin mused, he'd _needed_ to find it.   
  
In any case, whether Amon had simply been too drunk to realize which bed was his or if he really had sought her out for comfort through proximity in a bizarre twist of their power roles, Robin was tired again. Amon's presence in her bed would not prevent her from sleeping.  
  
And it didn't.


	9. Enjoy The Silence Tori Amos version

Someone was knocking on the door; not the main room door, but the door that joined the room he was in and Nagira's room. Therefore, his somewhat muddled-just-woke-up-slightly-pounding head deduced that it _was_ Nagira. Amon groaned a little while bringing up a hand to rub at his eyes (which he had squeezed even more tightly closed at the sound of knocking), and groaned a little more.  
  
"Come in," he called, hearing the door swing open. Then he opened his eyes.  
  
Then he wished he hadn't told Nagira to open the door. Furthermore, he wondered why Robin had selected _last night_ of all nights to crawl into his bed. Panicked, he jerked his head up slightly.  
  
_Then_ he realized that he had crawled into _her_ bed. _Oh, Christ.  
_  
He quickly looked over to Nagira, whom had stopped in the semi-center of the room, looking at Amon with a highly bemused expression on his face. Robin slept on obliviously, a mere lump of covers at Amon's side--disturbingly and amazingly close at Amon's side. The two brothers locked eyes for a few moments and then Nagira simply turned and walked out of the room with the same damnably amused look on his face.   
  
Amon couldn't help but lay there in shock for a few more moments, trying to recall how such a thing might have occurred and failing. Truth of the matter was that he had absolutely no recollection of how he had ended up in Robin's bed, or whether or not there had been anything that had proceeded it. Rolling out of bed quickly but as gently as he could so as not to wake Robin and cause _more_ awkwardness, he headed to his brother's room. Entering Nagira's room he found himself meeting the unchanged amused glance of said brother.  
  
"I guess I don't have to ask how you slept," Nagira started, teasingly. Amon was not in the mood. It was too early in the morning, his body was protesting at a lack of water, and above all--he was irritated, disturbed, and somewhat embarassed at having woken up in such a situation.  
  
"Don't," Amon warned. "Don't even start." His brain fumbled for some sort of rational explanation. "I was drunk and it was dark. I fell asleep in the wrong bed. Robin takes up so little of a bed when she sleeps that it's entirely possible that I laid down in hers and didn't even know she was there."  
  
Nagira's eyes twinkled maddeningly. "You sure you weren't just lonely?" His only response from Amon was a stare that would have frozen the sun--or, at the very least, turned it to ice. "It _was_ awfully cute, though."  
  
"Not a word to Robin." Amon was fairly certain that she hadn't been awake, anyway. He hoped that he hadn't awoken her. "It would be better for her just not to know."  
  
Nagira appeared freshly showered and more awake than he had a right to be--definitely infinitely more smug than Amon would have liked him to be. A quick glance at the clock told Amon it was approaching ten in the morning and a quick thought flitted across his brain: it wasn't like either he or Robin to sleep so late, even when he did go to bed at dawn.   
  
Could it be that they actually slept better when in the same bed? His mind, which had only milliseconds before posted the question, reeled on itself in anger and squelched the very thought.  
  
"Better for her or better for you?" Nagira asked, cunningly. His hands were reaching for a pack of cigarettes laid out on the table and Amon felt his jaw tighten. It was hard enough to deny how he felt to himself without Nagira nosing in it all the time as he was often wont to do. "'Cause after all, it didn't look like it was bothering Robin any."  
  
"Better for _all_, including you, if it's not spoken of," Amon grated out. His teeth were grinding and he was helpless to stop it. "If you--" He stopped suddenly and Nagira favoured him with an inquisitive glance. Something tugged at the very edge of Amon's hearing; a bit more sensitive than it would have been, more than likely due to the fact that his blood pressure was rising uncontrollably the longer he debated with his brother. The sound echoed off his eardrums and put a vague feeling of what could only be described as_ panic_ into his heart.  
  
Footsteps in the other room. Robin was awake. And, knowing his luck, she'd probably been awake the whole time. The sound of a door coming from the room that Robin and he shared pulled at his hearing, and, stretching it further, he heard the sound of what he figured to be running water. A lot of running water--she was taking a bath.  
  
"She's awake," Amon said suddenly, instead of whatever he had been ready to say before. Nagira merely quirked an eyebrow at Amon, lighting a cigarette. "I can hear her moving around in there. Keep your mouth shut about this or I'll shut it for you, Nagira."  
  
A snicker. "Uh-oh, baby brother's threatening me," the older brother practically sang through a cloud of smoke. "Fine. Fine. I won't say a word. We'll just..." Here, Nagira gestured with his hand in a circular motion as a filler for his pause while he thought. "...pretend it never happened because we didn't like it and never mention it again, in very _you_ fashion." Amon did not reply to the slight jab and Nagira shrugged. "I've already showered and everything. I'm ready to go and meet this woman whenever you two are. While you two are doing your morning things, I'm going to go and see about renting us a car--unless you want to do that and I can stay here with Robin?"  
  
Amon found himself very loath to leave his brother alone with Robin due to the fact that either Nagira would say something or Robin herself would say something (perhaps, he mused, a residual effect of his somewhat diminished trust in them). Even if it meant that he himself would have to stay with Robin and possibly face some sort of horribly embarassing confrontation and conversation, Amon preferred that his brother be sent out instead of him.  
  
"I will stay," Amon stated, and Nagira nodded, cigarette dangling from his lips as he swept his coat off the back of the chair he'd been sitting in. Shrugging into it, he removed the cigarette from his mouth perhaps just so he could give Amon a wolfish grin.  
  
"Suit yourself," Nagira said non-chalantly, heading for the door. "Here I was trying to do the buddy thing and give you an escape from the awkward morning after problem, but you turned it down. I swear, sometimes I just don't understand you..."  
  
--------------------  
  
Instead of waiting for Robin to finish her sometimes--rather often--lengthy bathroom ritual, Amon had gathered his belongings and showered in Nagira's room. Startlingly enough, after he had showered and shaved and re-entered the room he shared with Robin, Nagira had not yet returned and Robin had finished her bathroom ritual. It had been greatly shortened in comparison to what it usually was, and for some reason that filled Amon with a peculiar, nervous dread.  
  
Not that he let it show. Silently he re-arranged his belongings in his ruck sack and laid it next to his untouched bed, then looked over at Robin's still mussed one. The blankets and sheets were rumpled and folded back where she had slept under them, and a slight rippling of fabric on top of the coverlet had indicated where his own body had lain.   
  
"Damnit," he murmured very quietly to himself. He looked over to the bathroom and saw that the door was cracked open about a foot. He was not ready to face Robin yet. Turning, he walked towards Nagira's room to wait for his brother's return--  
  
--and was stopped cold by the sound of Robin's voice. Not just the sound of Robin's voice, but the sound of Robin's voice saying his name.  
  
"Amon? Is that you?" she called a second time from within the bathroom. With an almost inaudible sigh, Amon turned on his heel and walked towards the bathroom, appearing in the doorway. He did not open the door fully but instead pushed it open just a bit more, just wide enough for only his body to fit in the space.   
  
Robin was kneeling on an ottoman, obviously dragged from within their room, in front of the mirror. One of her hands gripped the egde of the sink and the other held a small pair of scissors. Tiny tufts of faded-blonde hair adorned the floor and the sink's surface, and--Amon couldn't help but notice--her bare shoulders, since she had reclad herself in a sleeping-slip after her bath.  
  
"What are you doing?" he asked her, neutrally. She looked back at him in that open, even way of hers.  
  
"Trimming my hair," she replied. "My bangs were starting to get in my mouth." Amon's eyes flicked up to Robin's somewhat long, face-obscuring bangs, and then back to her face. Her hand that held the scissors opened them once, twice. "Did you shower in Nagira's room?" she asked.  
  
"Yes. I thought that would be smarter than waiting for this bathroom," he replied, voice as neutral as before. "Nagira has gone to rent a vehicle for the trip today."  
  
"Oh." Robin turned to look into the mirror for a moment, and reached up with her free hand to brush some of the short little clippings of hair off her shoulder. Amon tried not to stare at her lithe, slip-clad body and settled instead for looking at her feet, sticking out off the end of the ottoman in mid-air, rubbing slightly at each other. After a few moments she had said nothing else, and Amon figured she had nothing else to say.   
  
Before he could even think to move his body, however, Robin turned to look at him again, her mouth slightly open.  
  
His mind cursed. In a moment, he knew that she knew.  
  
--------------------  
  
Robin wondered how Amon could just stand there so coolly, so composedly--as if he _hadn't _woken up in her bed that morning. The wall was in full effect.  
  
"Amon?" she began, quietly. "How did we end up sharing a bed last night?" she asked, after a slight pause. His face didn't even move, but she swore she could hear additional fortifications to the wall slamming down around her ex-partner.  
  
"I'd hoped that perhaps _you_ could have told _me_," he replied, devoid of emotion. "I do not know." He stopped, stare even and steely. When he resumed talking, it seemed that his voice was even _more_ evenly-moderated than it was before, if such a thing was possible. "In either case, I am sorry for the intrusion."  
  
She blinked. Did he think she was angry or offended? Disgusted or frightened, perhaps? "Amon, I--"  
  
"It was wrong of me to do such a thing and it won't happen again." Amon's words cut right into the middle of her own like a knife through butter, and carried an air of finality to them. Realization sunk in--he _really_ didn't want to talk about it. He was more than likely angry and disgusted with _himself_ for letting something like that occur. Robin's heart sank.   
  
So his trust in her really _had_ been damaged, it seemed.  
  
"It was fine, really," Robin murmured, and something flashed behind Amon's grey eyes before disappearing as quickly as it had come--so quick that Robin had not been able to determine what had caused the momentary shifting. She figured once again that it was either anger or disgust--or, quite possibly, discomfort. "But--if you feel like you need to apologise for it, then..."  
  
Silence. He apparently had nothing to say or was waiting for her to accept his apology so he could end the conversation and leave.  
  
"...but I don't understand," Robin finished instead, causing him to straighten a bit in his lean against the doorframe, obviously caught off guard. "It's not as if this is the first time that..." She felt suddenly warm talking about it, remembering how startled she had been to discover him in her bed. "...we've been in a bed--"  
  
"I think it should be painfully obvious what makes it different in this instance," Amon said flatly, once again cutting into her words, effectively stopping them. "A boundary that should not have been crossed was, and perhaps I was being too lenient in allowing such things to have happened before in the first place. It isn't fitting, Robin."  
  
_Fitting of what? To whom? _Robin's mind reeled, but she said nothing, only opened and closed the scissors in her hand dumbly. She had been right before--she could feel Amon's wall thickening with every word he said. She _had_ damaged the trust between them, and he was reacting accordingly--pushing her away, far away, as he would have in the distant past.  
  
Any progress that had been made, Robin felt, was being undone before her very eyes. Amon's sudden and fervent aloofness was the proof of it.  
  
"In the future I would prefer that we not frequent the same bed again under any circumstances," he went on, echoing in Robin's thoughts. "I apologise for my actions." His face softened, if only momentarily--or so Robin thought, and his next words affirmed the possible softening a bit. "It was I who crossed the line, not you."  
  
The scissors stopped moving in her hand, and she swallowed, clearing her throat a bit. She didn't know what to say, but Amon had not moved from the doorway. She suspected once again--knowing Amon and knowing Japanese culture--that he was waiting for her to accept his apology so the matter could be officially closed.  
  
She didn't want it to be officially closed, though. If she allowed that to happen, Robin feared they would be back at square one. If she refused to let him deny that it had happened by accepting his apology, it would remain in their history. Their _shared_ history.   
  
"Your hair's looking a bit long, too," she said suddenly, and Amon's eyes were slightly irritated--wondering why she wouldn't accept his apology, more than likely. "If you'd like, I can trim yours for you as well, while I've got the scissors out," she offered, feeling her hand starting to open and close the scissors mechanically again. "I'm...rather good at it, by now."  
  
He looked at her through his wall, face tight. "No. I can do that by myself, without assistance." When he'd spoken, Amon's voice had sounded as tight as his face. "Nagira will be returning soon. I suggest you hurry and finish and then get dressed." With those words, he disappeared from the doorway before Robin could reply.  
  
She turned and looked at herself in the mirror. Amon was Amon. He didn't need assistance for _anything_, it was starting to seem. And even if he did--he took it and then pushed you away.  
  
_Fine_, her mind spat, a vaguely unfamiliar emotion boiling in her soul. _Fine. If he wants to pretend like he's an island all to himself then let him do it._ Robin, having experienced the emotion a few times before--but not many--eventually pinned it down as helpless, unbridled feminine rage. _Let him do whatever he wants.  
_  
Something in Robin's heart (her head, as well) ached dully as she brought the scissors up and took another minute, careful snip at her bangs, which were starting to hang somewhere around her nose.   
  
--------------------  
  
In yet another odd reversal of their roles of power, Amon deferred the front passenger seat to Robin as they entered the vehicle, a Mercedes ML500 SUV. As far as Robin could remember, she'd never actually _ridden_ in any civilian vehicle larger than a car, so having to step up to enter the SUV was a strange sensation for her.  
  
So was sitting up front next to Nagira, unable to watch Amon or where he was looking. She thought that perhaps every once in a while she felt his stare on her shoulders like a bucket of bricks, but she didn't want to turn around to find out.   
  
Traffic, for Reykjavík being such a small city, was horrendous. That was more than likely due to the fact that the streets were very narrow and winding, and the intersections poorly planned. The large SUV crept along at Nagira's gas-pedal-feathering insistence, and Robin tried to get used to looking _down_ on other cars as opposed to looking up at them as the car--at Amon's lead-footed insistence--practically flew past them.  
  
"Well, you two are a god-damned cheerful bunch this morning," Nagira said after quite some time had passed in complete silence. "Is it always this way? Because if so, tell me, so I can give into my temptation to find out what the radio in this country is like."  
  
"Let's not and say we did," Amon spoke from the backseat, obviously adverse to the idea of enduring the Icelandic language in musical context. Robin looked over at Nagira, smiling slightly.  
  
"I don't think I've ever ridden in a car this big before," she said, conversationally. "I mean...a truck. What is this thing?"  
  
"It's called a 'sport-utility vehicle', and they're utterly impractical," Nagira replied, amusement written all over his voice. "It's probably why they're so popular. After all, doesn't every soccer mom in the world need a V-8 off-road capable vehicle in order to go to the grocery store?" He began to snicker somewhat at his own comments. "We, however, needed one due to the fact that I'm pretty sure the paved road is going to end within a fair amount of time outside of this place." Nagira looked at the no smoking sticker stuck on the Mercedes' windshield with disgust, and fumbled to light up anyway. Amon grumbled somewhat from the back seat and shifted towards the middle of the rear bench a bit more--presumably disgruntled at the way ashes that were meant to go out the window kept ending up on him.  
  
"It's just odd," Robin mused, a moment later. "I've never ridden this far off the ground before. I'm not used to being able to look down at people in their cars."  
  
Nagira looked over at her with a toothy grin at the next stop light, smoke swirling around the inside of the cab. "Makes ya feel powerful, huh?" Robin nodded slightly, and Nagira turned back to the road as the light turned green and traffic began to creep along again. "The silent man in the backseat would probably argue that no vehicle makes one feel more powerful than a super-responsive death-trap of a sports car, but I myself kind of like these big beasts. If it were practical to own one in Japan, I probably would."  
  
"As if owning a Ferarri is any more practical?" Amon pointed out, from the back seat. Nagira shot Amon a figurative raspberry via his eyes in the rear-view mirror.   
  
"I'm a lawyer," Nagira countered smoothly. "I _have_ to live like a complete jackass. It's in the job description. So," he said, turning his attention back to Robin, suddenly, "are _you_ driving yet?"  
  
"Me?" Robin almost squeaked in surprise, eyes wide. "Driving? No." It didn't seem terribly difficult to do--that is, in certain cars. Operating a manual transmission may have been a bit out of her league, she suspected, but cars like the one that Karasuma had owned and the one they were in now, that basically did the driving for you...those couldn't be too difficult to operate, could they?  
  
Nagira looked incredulous even as Amon managed to appear as if he already disagreed with the conversational turn from the back seat. "Not driving? Well, I think we should remedy that! Kids in the United States get their licenses at 16, you know--get their own cars and everything. Crazy, huh? But still, it can't hurt to have you knowing how to drive. How about I let you take over for a bit once we get out of the city, eh?" Before Robin could get words out of her mouth, Amon cut into them for about the fifth time that day with his own.  
  
"Absolutely not." His words were like an arrow fired into the dash from a crossbow in the back seat. "This isn't even your car, Nagira. And she's never driven before in her life."  
  
A shrug. "You gotta start somewhere," the lawyer reasoned, not sounding too concerned about the fact that he was driving a 50,000 dollar rental car.   
  
Terse silence issued forth from the back seat, and finally: "No. That would be highly unwise."  
  
The strange, unfamiliar roiling boil of emotion that Robin had experienced that morning suddenly returned in full-force and broke through whatever dam in her body that had been controlling it. Robin's usually neutral curve of a mouth downturned sharply, and her eyebrows lowered along her eyes sternly. She bit her tongue at the sudden torrent of angry protests that threatened to issue forth from her mouth, unbidden. _Oh, Amon, I wish you'd make up your mind!_ her brain screeched, unbeknownst to the men in the car. _One minute you're kidding with me, the next minute you're crawling into my bed, then you're acting like a controlling father, running around with a holier-than-thou crown on your head._ She bit her tongue even harder. _Just stop it.  
_  
"How old were you when you learned to drive?" Nagira continued the debate between his brother and himself, unaware of Robin's internal war between her sudden rage and Amon's behaviour. "Hell, I was right around her age--you were too, weren't you? Whatever nutcase gave _you _keys at fifteen needs to have their head checked."  
  
Amon was unwavering, solid, stoic in the back seat as the SUV jounced along slightly on the roads due to stiff suspension. "It's true that I was fifteen and that perhaps it wasn't a very well thought out idea to give me keys," he admitted, but somehow his tone made the concession sound more like a pointed threat than anything else. "I still say no. What you and I did at fifteen is--"  
  
Something in Robin erupted further, boiling over and sending her into meltdown. Releasing her tooth-grip on her tongue, she turned quickly in her seat, her normally glowing green eyes dark and glinting. "Do as I say, not as I do, right?" she accused, feeling helpless and frustrated and even more like the fifteen year old she was--_throwing a tantrum, Robin, really,_ her mind chided somewhere in the background of the tidal wave of anger. Amon merely looked at her impassively, his mask impeccably in place. The look in his eyes, however, stated that he would sit there and take her onslaught but that he found it _utterly ridiculous_, somehow.  
  
This only heightened Robin's feelings of rage, of despair, of emotional hysteria. "I'm never going to be more than a stupid little girl to you, am I?" she spat, her voice twisted and contorted into something acidic and venemous that she'd never heard coming from herself before. "From partner to Hunter to the saviour of all witches to...to...even if I was _God_," she went on, voice starting to shake with the force of the outburst--even though her voice never raised above normal speaking level, "you'd still treat me as if I was some kind of thing that happened to you! Why do you have to be so horribly _hateful_ all the time?" she asked, and the only response from Amon was his continuing stare. Nagira, driving there next to Robin, was semi-shocked into silence, his cigarette burning away uselessly in his hand.  
  
"I didn't _ask_ you to give up your life to follow me or help me," Robin said, feeling the familiar stinging, burning sensation coming to her eyes--it seemed to be coming rather frequently as of late. Perhaps, her mind mused quietly, there was a grain of truth to the stories of teenagers and out of control hormones...how else could she explain her up and down moods as of late? "That was your choice and yet every day you act like I _made_ you do it, Amon. I am sorry if you are unhappy with what you've done with your life, but stop--" here, the burning in her eyes became acute, "--stop taking it out on _me_. You're supposed to be my partner, not my master."  
  
Amon's eyes pinned her then, devoid of emotion--almost as if he was willing/them to be absent of emotion; no one's eyes could be that blank naturally. Not even Amon's; Robin had forced herself to believe this before and she hadn't been proved wrong. "I am supposed to be your warden. That means I do what is in your best interest, whether or not you know it at the time, whether or not you like it."  
  
"Just stop it!" Robin burst, her head starting to ache acutely, eyes burning but she refused to blink them--if she blinked them, the tears would fall and Amon would just stare at her coolly; somehow, he would win and she was so _tired_ of him winning. "Stop it! Which one of us is the one who can't control our Craft? Which one of us is more in danger of doing harm to others or to ourself?" she went on uncontrollably, and Amon's eyes darkened almost immediately, his jaw setting. "I don't want a warden anymore. I want a partner, someone who's not always going to keep me a million miles away and under his thumb because he--"  
  
Nagira finally snapped out of his shock and reached out with his free hand, now devoid of cigarette, to touch Robin's shoulder gently. "Robin," he murmured, interrupting her. "Calm down. It's not worth it."  
  
"You can't always get what you want," Amon said, simply, and Robin's shoulders slumped even as Nagira gently turned her around, pushing her back into her seat as she immediately stared out her window and let the tears begin to fall. "I am only doing what is best for you. And given your recent actions, Robin, quite frankly I find it very difficult to place a fair amount of serious trust in you."   
  
"Robin, calm down," Nagira urged soothingly, his hand rubbing at Robin's thin shoulder. The lawyer's eyes flicked up to the rear view mirror, back to his brother's eyes--Amon's face was unmoved, but his eyes had gone from reservedly cool to vacant and remorseful as soon as Robin had turned away from him. A large breath escaped Nagira as he stared at his little brother. "You're a real fucking piece of work, you know that?" he said, half-heartedly to the rear-view mirror.  
  
Amon said nothing, but his eyes told Nagira that he didn't need the disgust of others--he was already plenty fed up with himself.  
  
-------------------  
  
It was a small cottage on a wind-wasted, green, rocky landscape that they stopped at when they finally stopped. A very old, white Land Rover with European plates stood next to the old-looking home, under the flat grey sky. Nothing else--no trees at all, no other homes, no _nothing_ could be seen along the horizons with the naked eye.  
  
Nagira put the Mercedes into park and turned off the car. Undoubtedly, the house's inhabitant was wondering who the hell was outside. He looked over at Robin and she looked over at him, and he noticed with a small pang of sadness in his gut that she looked wasted and wearied, her face still slightly red from the tears that she had cried silently and steadily for about twenty minutes after her earlier outburst. It was times like that that Nagira felt like acting like he was eighteen again, Amon home in Japan during a break in SOLOMON training; wrestling his little brother down into the ground, pummelling him mercilessly.   
  
"Are you ready?" he asked of the tow-headed girl, and she nodded, no words escaping her. From the backseat, Amon shifted.  
  
"What is this woman's name?" he asked suddenly, the first time he'd talked since the argument earlier. Nagira turned to look at him. He looked the same, save his eyes--they looked just as wasted and wearied as Robin's did.   
  
Ah, young love.  
  
"Gróa," Nagira replied, mouth feeling strange uttering the name. "Her last name's something barely human like...like...Gerrbl_eeeeh_." Nagira knew he had butchered the woman's last name, but he had no clue how to pronounce it. It seemed good enough for Amon and he exited the vehicle, slamming the door resolutely on his way out. Robin exited as well, her door closing in a much gentler manner. Nagira was the last to exit, casually sliding out of his seat as both Robin and Amon stood near the vehicle--but far away from each other--watching him.  
  
"Let's go," he said, and Robin turned on her heel and headed straight for the cottage's door. Amon looked mildly startled that she had taken the initiative and gone first, without him, and turned to follow her. She went right up to the door and knocked, not even waiting for him to join her on the step. Both brothers came up behind Robin and stood there, Nagira casting a glance over at Amon only to find Amon casting a glance over at him.   
  
Robin only stared at the door. Some scratching noises were heard on the other side, and moments later the door opened a bit, revealing a tiny woman with very blonde hair--the woman was so short she was actually looking up at _Robin_, who was by no means a tall girl. The woman's light blue eyes looked first at the girl in front of her, and then to the two men behind her. She said nothing.  
  
Amon had opened his mouth to speak, but Robin had beat him to it. "My name is Robin Sena," she said, quietly. "I am a witch. I've been on the run from SOLOMON for quite some time now. I'm fairly certain I'm their most wanted."  
  
Nagira looked over at Amon, who looked as if he was ready to have a minor coronary.  
  
"I want you to help me find others," Robin continued, unmindful of Amon's panicked state. "I hear that you can do that."  
  
The woman sized Robin up for a moment, silently, and Nagira wondered briefly if the woman knew how to speak English. She smiled, suddenly, toothily--displaying the fact that her front teeth were slightly crooked. Amon did not relax and Robin did not seem to care. She did not break eye contact with the small Icelandic woman in the cottage in front of them.  
  
"Ah, Robin Sena, witch," the woman said, a lilt to her bizarrely accented voice. "Your reputation preceeds you--at least in my world. I'd never expected to actually meet you, however. You all may come in. My name is Gróa Guðmundsdóttir." She opened the door widely and stepped back as Robin stepped in, not even bothering to look back at the two men behind her to see if they were coming or not. Amon, obviously immensely disturbed by Robin's actions, followed hot on her heels. Nagira nodded at Gróa with a smile and entered.  
  
"And naturally," Gróa said, closing the door behind her and looking at the three people in her home, "you are probably wondering who told me about you and why."  
  
"Naturally," Amon let out, and Nagira noticed for the first time that his brother was sweating. Not just sweating as a normal human would perspire; sweat had begun to run down his brother's face in rivulets. Robin looked over at Amon coolly, apparently she'd noticed the sweat as well, but immediately looked away and remained aloof.  
  
"I think I know who you are as well, sir," Gróa said, smiling. "Your reputation preceeds you as well. Hello to you as well, Amon Novotne." The tall man and the very short woman had a staring contest for a moment, Gróa appearing mildly amused. "Do you know how rare your Craft is, Mr. Novotne?" she asked suddenly, even as sweat dripped off Amon's chin. "Among all witches, that is. Very few are blessed with your Craft; perhaps for a reason. Humans, perhaps, were not meant to sense things as Gods do."  
  
"What do you know about my Craft?" Amon almost spat, sounding hoarse and shaky. His eyes were either narrowed or..._squinting_? Nagira had never known his brother to become so nervous, so uncontrolled as he saw him at that moment.  
  
"More than you'd think. Enough to know what causes it, how it works, and that you _can_ and _will _kill yourself with it unless you learn to control it," the Icelandic woman countered, still smiling. "I'd suggest you all have a seat. It appears as if we have much to talk about."  
  
Nagira sat down on a well-worn cobalt blue recliner, gazing out the window next to the door as he waited for the other two to take a seat. Robin, whom had previously been doing her best to forget that Amon existed, couldn't help but shoot a concerned glance at him at the news of his Craft. After the glance, however, she sat down slowly on a worn recliner very similar to the one Nagira found himself in, save that Robin's was grey.  
  
Amon remained standing.  
  
"Mr. Novotne," Gróa said, her voice a strange mixture of compassion and condescension. Amon winced slightly at her voice, but set his jaw and stared at her.   
  
Nagira sighed. Why in the hell was his brother such a hard-ass? "Have a seat, buddy. You look like you're getting ready to die."  
  
Amon looked over at Nagira briefly, and Nagira would have sworn that Amon's eyes were _glazed_, and then he looked back to Gróa. "How much do you know about what's happening to me?" he asked of her suddenly, and she sighed, eyes closing.  
  
"In due time, Mr. Novotne. I'd suggest you calm down and attempt to gather your...wits. For now, please have a seat," she urged again, indicating a couch near Amon that faced inwards towards Robin and Nagira. Nagira looked to Robin, who looked to Amon with--_it can't be_, Nagira's mind giggled--was that _annoyance_ on her normally-so-docile face? Concern was present, that was for sure, but it appeared to be the concern of someone for a person who repeatedly rams their head into a brick wall.  
  
Ah, young love.  
  
"Amon." Robin's soft voice cut into the air of the room in a way that managed to be inobtrusive; as if Amon was the only other person in the room, but in a way that commanded attention, as well. Amon's head jerked to the sound of Robin's voice as if it was connected to the opening of her mouth by a wire. "Sit down."  
  
Nagira concealed his highly inappropriate for the moment smile behind a hand as his little brother sat down on the couch at Robin's command, as willingly as any trained dog. It was as if Robin had exercised some sort of Craft on her erstwhile ex-partner; Nagira wondered if being the Eve of Witches entailed the power to control other witches. Interesting, indeed. Amon appeared to be attempting to rid himself of a massive headache when Nagira looked over at him again. His eyes were squeezed shut and his hands were at his temples, somewhat shakily. Robin watched him for a moment, as if to gauge his actions, and then looked to Gróa.  
  
"Sorry," Nagira piped up, suddenly, turning the heads of the two women in the room to him, "I didn't introduce myself. The name's Nagira. I'm Amon there's older half-brother."  
  
"Welcome to my home, Nagira," Gróa said with a small smile and a slight nod of her head, and then turned back to Robin, eyes intent. "As I said, I never actually expected to ever meet you...but when I think about it, it does not shock me that you located me. How did you manage to achieve that, by the way?" The tiny woman walked from the door, slowly, almost stockily--Nagira sized her up with his eyes, discreetly. She wasn't particularly attractive, at least not to him. Her body was very compact and petite, but very tight and built as well, broad-shouldered; she looked like a gymnast. Her face was rather plain and her chin a little too sharp, but her eyes were keen and benevolent. "The last I had ever heard of you--and yes, I was used to hearing about you two mysterious figures quite frequently--was that you'd managed not to make contact with any covens or circles anywhere in Europe, or anywhere else in the world. Naturally, everyone has been _very_ curious about you two."  
  
Nagira raised his hand, slightly, drawing Gróa's intense gaze to him once again. "I located you. My main profession is that of a lawyer, in Japan, but I also dabble in what one might call...oh, well, I guess maybe what you do, on a smaller scale. And perhaps, a bit shadier of a scale as well," he finished, with a grin.  
  
Gróa looked at him for a moment, scrutinizing, squinting. "Perhaps I have heard of you, Nagira. Your name does sound familiar to me, now...especially when paired with the country of Japan."  
  
"It seems that both you and I have a thing for witches," Nagira shrugged, sitting back in his seat. His eyes flicked over to Amon briefly, just to make sure that his brother hadn't died quietly. Amon's eyes were open again and he appeared to be mildly more lucid than he had been before. Quietly, Amon wiped at some of the sweat on his face and then pulled on his hair, attempting to draw it away from his face. It appeared as if a great deal of it was stuck to his face and neck due to sweat, however.  
  
Robin somehow managed to suddenly draw all the attention in the room to her before she'd even said a word, leaving Nagira to wonder if she _was_ exercising some sort of Craft power that he hadn't known about. "I've heard that you aren't a witch, yourself," she began, quietly. "How is it then that you know so much about them--all of them--all over the world?"  
  
Gróa smiled like the Cheshire Cat, revealing her slightly crooked front teeth once more. "Well, for one, I used to work for SOLOMON in France."  
  
Robin frowned. "It's odd that I never met you, then. I did part of my Hunter's training in France."  
  
"I didn't work for a part of SOLOMON that you would ever know about," Gróa replied, grin still on her face. Robin absorbed this, and then leaned back in her seat, steepling her fingers beneath her small chin--Nagira couldn't help but smile for the billionth time that day. Whether or not she knew it, that was _definitely_ a pose she'd picked up from Amon.  
  
"Why not work for SOLOMON here in your home country?" Robin queried, and Gróa blinked at her.  
  
"Why, I thought for certain you would have known _that_, already." She looked around to all three of them, eyes widening. "And to tell me that you and Mr. Novotne both worked for SOLOMON and you didn't know? Huh." The older woman shrugged, leaning back in her seat as Robin had done. "The Icelandic government--acting in its own best interests and those of its people--threw SOLOMON out of the country in 1982. Iceland and a majority of its people live very close to their old roots; old pagan traditions die hard." A slight chuckle escaped Gróa. "A majority of Iceland's governing class still lives close to its pagan roots. As I said before, this lies in direct contrast with SOLOMON's doctrine. Iceland had no desire to watch its people continue to die. March 1, 1982, SOLOMON and all of its agents within the country were issued an edict by the government--your power in this country effectively ends at midnight tonight."  
  
"And?" Amon asked, turning all heads in the room to him. Apparently he felt recovered enough to speak.   
  
"Well, it took a bit longer than that, but SOLOMON eventually left. This was only after many, many more killings--on both sides of the fight, witch and Hunter--and eventually the Icelandic government threatened to expose SOLOMON as well as it could to the entirety of the world."  
  
"What good would that do? Most people in this day and age know of SOLOMON. It's not like fifty years ago, when _no one_ knew that SOLOMON existed," Nagira asked, shrugging. "Do you mind if I smoke in here?"   
  
The petite Icelandic woman waved him on. "Be my guest. The house more oft than not smells of mildew, anyway--I need to replace my walls. What good would it do, you ask?" Gróa looked directly at Robin then, smiling at her as a prompt. "My dear, tell me. Who did you do most of your Hunter's training under, as a child?"  
  
Robin appeared confused by the question. "Why--well, Father Juliano, I suppose. A few other Fathers that he was acquainted with, as well. Why does that matter?"  
  
"And you?" the older woman asked of Amon, and he looked over at her. His eyes were glinting; Nagira could almost hear the gears whirring in his brother's head as he lit his cigarette, staring at Amon through the haze of smoke.  
  
"A great deal of Church officials," Amon said. He looked at Robin and Nagira, understanding on his face. "People know that SOLOMON exists, but _no one_--except those within the organization--know how closely tied to the Church it is," Amon shook his head, suddenly. "No. It is a _part_ of the Church. Imagine the uproar all over the world if it were to be revealed that the Church had been funding, in no particular terms, genocide for years."  
  
"Oh." Robin looked cowed. "I see."  
  
Gróa was nodding. She rose and walked over to a window in the living room and drew back the drapes, allowing more bright grey light in the room. Amon winced suddenly, over-dramatically; apparently he was not quite over his little fit yet. "Precisely correct. But, that's not all. Apparently SOLOMON has even deeper ties that not even you two--three--know about."  
  
Nagira's interest was effectively piqued. "And what are those?"  
  
"Ignorance is bliss." Gróa seemed incapable of curbing her smile. Her answer did not satisfy Nagira but before he had a chance to press the matter, Robin leaned forward in her seat.  
  
"You said that your former ties to SOLOMON were one reason that you'd heard of Amon and I," Robin said, cocking her head slightly, inquisitive. "What's another?"  
  
Gróa paused by the other still-draped window in the small, homey living room, her eyes angled down toward the floor. She appeared...was it remorseful? Nagira was having a hard time pinning down the Icelandic woman's exact emotion; Robin appeared befuddled by Gróa's sudden reservedness. Amon simply looked on, impassively. No one said anything, for a moment.  
  
"I'd hoped that perhaps the first reason would have been enough for you," Gróa said quietly, with a small laugh that sounded more sardonic than mirthful. She turned back to the window, her tiny frame turned away from them, her face unseen. She worked at uncovering the window, letting more light into the house.  
  
"It has to do with a man, doesn't it?" Amon said suddenly, startling everyone in the room--including Gróa, it appeared. Nagira was less startled at the sudden sound of Amon's voice than he was at the appearance of some sort of sensitivity to emotion in his brother.  
  
The drapery was already open, which gave Gróa nothing more to occupy her attention. It left her no choice but to turn and face the trio again. She turned and met Amon's even, composed glance head on, and nodded slightly. "What's the saying?" she queried, her accent otherworldly. "You've hit the nail on the...the head?" She shrugged. "How'd you know? Maybe it's an old story, or something. Men and women, you know."  
  
Amon merely blinked at her. "Perhaps I am too used to leaving women like you behind," he replied, his deep voice reflecting a sort of remorse. Nagira let his mind skip back over his brother's patchy and sometimes strange love-life--and after a moment's reflection, Nagira realized that Amon had spoken the truth. The most recent, of course, had been Touko, whom Nagira sensed had cared for Amon with every fibre of her being. Nagira had also sensed that Amon had known this as well, but as in every other relationship he'd ever witnessed his little brother in, Amon appeared to simply _will_ himself to not care.  
  
And then came Robin. But that was another story entirely.  
  
Robin herself was busy appearing mildly uncomfortable at Amon's statement about his frequent deliveries of heartbreak, and instead looked to Gróa. Perhaps she was imagining herself being horribly heartbroken--perhaps moreso than she probably already was--by Amon. "What happened?" she asked quietly, gently.  
  
"To make a lengthy story short?" Gróa said, looking at Amon--and Amon only--as she picked idly at a fingernail, "I only hope that _you_ never left a wife for her younger sister." She cleared her throat. "Only after you'd sired a child with said younger sister, of course."  
  
Robin flushed red and turned away from Gróa. Apparently the tone of the conversation was growing too personal and uncomfortable for the young teenager. Nagira winced, outwardly and inwardly. "That's cold," he couldn't help but utter, and wondered afterwards if he should have. Amon had _better_ not have done anything like that ever before, or he'd be answering to Nagira after the conversation had ended.  
  
"I haven't," Amon replied.   
  
Gróa nodded, clapping her small hands briskly. "Well, then, good! One less bit of evil in the world, I suppose! But what can you say? One's got to take what life gives them and roll with the punches, even if it still hurts, yes?" She sighed, shrugging her shoulders and looking at Robin. "You are too young, Robin Sena, to be traumatized by my bitter old maid's tales. In any case," Gróa continued quickly before Robin could say anything, "one can't carry a grudge forever--especially against one's own family. My ex-husband is the leader of one of--if not _the_--most powerful coven in Europe. Perhaps the world. And my little sister is now his bride. And their child, my nephew, is now the heir to the coven's seat."  
  
"Thirteen witches, and it's the most powerful coven in the world?" Amon asked, incredulously.   
  
"A coven needn't necessarily be exactly thirteen witches, Amon," Robin interjected, turning to her darker half, who looked back at her intently. Nagira watched them with interest and wondered how it could _not_ be obvious to anyone who looked at them that they were madly in love with each other. "That's merely the traditional number. Nowadays, for protection especially, I'd think, covens are probably much larger."  
  
Amon looked from Robin to Gróa, who was nodding. "She's right. A coven of only thirteen witches nowadays would have very little chance of surviving. To be honest, despite the tales of that one's power," there she pointed to Robin, who looked bewildered, "I'm shocked that two witches such as yourselves were able to survive for this long with all of SOLOMON looking for you. Especially with your Craft being so newly-awoken," she said, then indicating Amon. Amon bristled at first, and then seemed to relax, apparently having seen the futility in railing against Gróa; especially when she had so much information to offer.   
  
Robin looked at Gróa, her eyes wide and her breathing quickened. Amon watched her suddenly with concern in his eyes; it appeared as if Robin was skating the edge of some sort of panic attack, or at the very least a crying fit. "But _why_?" she whispered, her green eyes focussing and unfocussing on some point on the wooden floor. "What tales of my power? If I'm supposed to be the all-powerful heir to the throne of the entirety of witchdom, then why am I so helpless to focus, to hone my powers? Why am I so..._helpless _still?" Robin asked, desperately.  
  
"You're still young, Robin," Nagira reassured, just as concerned as Amon probably was that Robin was on the verge of bursting into tears for the second time that day. Where was the calm, self-possessed and self-assured girl that had sat down in the grey easy chair at the beginning of this conversation? The flinchless girl who had calmly ordered _Amon_ to sit down and had him obey wordlessly? The determined witch who had marched from the car to the door of this very cottage, deciding her own destiny, taking her life out of her warden's hands and into her own for once?  
  
That girl had fled and retreated back into the body of the slender, teenaged, quickly-becoming-watery-eyed-for-no-good-reason, Amon-obsessed Robin. And Nagira failed to voice his thoughts, but his mind told him that Robin would never fully come into her own as the 'heir to the throne of the entirety of witchdom', as she herself had put it, until she had learned to stop retreating within herself; learned to come out from behind Amon's shadow and to put him in hers; to accept the legacy of her power--which meant accepting all of it, even if she didn't know how to control it.  
  
Gróa walked to Robin quickly and placed her hand onto Robin's green thick-coat-clad shoulder, and then smoothed the crown of her head almost maternally with the other. "Now, Robin. We'll talk about all of that after we have some lunch--both you and Mr. Novotne, I think, could take some air right about now, and a nice break. Why don't you go outside and take a walk? Mr. Novotne would do well to go with you." Gróa pinned Nagira with her fierce yet somehow comforting blue gaze, and smiled. "You, Nagira, can stay and keep me company and help me cook lunch. Normally I have to get out a stool to reach some of my pots and pans on the tops of the cabinets in the kitchen...but you, you look nice and tall, yes? You can reach them for me with no problem!"  
  
Robin stood abruptly, her coat hanging off her in odd angles and folds, and headed for the door quickly. Nagira watched her go and he watched Gróa watch her go. Amon did less watching than he did sitting in stasis. Robin made a beeline for the door, fumbling with the hood of her jacket. One good tug on the handle from the obviously emotionally-distressed Eve of Witches and the door flew open, letting in a cold burst of air. That alone seemed to finally rouse Amon from his static slumber and he looked towards the door in sudden piqued interest--only to catch the blurred sight of Robin quickly exiting.  
  
Without a word he rose smoothly and fluidly, crossed the small living room, and exited the door himself. It closed behind him with a solid wooden thump.   
  
Alone in the living room with the Icelandic woman, Nagira had no choice but to look at her and smile largely, through his personal atmosphere of cigarette smoke. "So what's cookin'?" he asked her, jovially, using the familiar old cheer in his voice to disguise anything and everything that may have been running through it otherwise in undertones and currents. 


	10. The Outsider

The wind, ice-cold and razor-sharp, whipped across her face without abandon. With no trees, no buildings, or no structures of any other kind about, Robin found herself being forced to play the role of windbreak. It dried her eyes and made them water, perhaps more than they had been watering before, and the crispness of the cold, dry air made it difficult for her to breathe.  
  
Or had all of that been happening in the sanctity of Gróa's living room, as well?  
  
Her hood did her little good since it just kept blowing off her head, stubbornly. It wasn't as if it would have been much help anyway since her coat was too ridiculously big for her, and the hood would have obstructed her vision anyway. Marching up the nearest green hill dotted with rocky outcroppings, Robin moved away from the house with bewilderment and hopelessness beating in her breast like a second heart. Nearing the top of the hill, the wind almost blew her over backwards but she kept marching on, numb hands clutching at her heavy black skirt with a vice-grip; partially to move the skirt out of her way as she marched, partially to keep it from flapping up in the gale.  
  
"I thought I was supposed to walk with you," Amon's voice called from behind her, and Robin attempted to double her march. She said nothing, just kept marching. Something inside of her was threatening to snap again and it was going to snap on Amon, again, if he persisted in following her. "Robin. Slow down."  
  
The sound of his voice was almost lost in the wind around them and the gale of emotions loose inside Robin's mind. A part of her brain _reached_ out, and the felt the sunfire presence of Amon behind her, persistent; she stopped the reaching before it could spin out of control and show her the entirety of the witch-world in a show of light. He was gaining on her, she both sensed and saw it in her mind's eye.  
  
"My legs are longer than yours," Amon offered, coming down the other side of the hill. "I'm going to catch up to you, inevitably. Unless you'd care to try to run from me--but I can outrun you, now, as well."  
  
Coming down the hill her footfalls were heavy and clumsy. She scrubbed at her eyes, her face feeling pinched and dry from all the wind. Tendrils of her hair whipped about uselessly and she pushed at them in irritation, as well. Amon was almost right behind her, then.  
  
His hand gripped the loose, heavy fabric of the coat on her shoulder, effectively jarring her into a stop. She attempted to pull away, half-heartedly, knowing that she wasn't going to be able to do it; Amon's grip tightened accordingly. Robin whirled to face him, face wind-whipped white and pink, eyes dry and watery all at the same time. Her nose was beginning to run, slightly, and she sniffled. Standing with her back to the wind caused her hood to flip up and over her head, and from underneath its safety she stared flatly out at Amon, who regarded her evenly through his mess of whipping black hair.  
  
"_What_?" she asked tiredly, voice straining. He continued to just look at her with the same measured glance--as if to say, _You know what_. She attempted to jerk away from his grip again, only to have it tighten once more.   
  
Her mind itched within its confinements. Robin allowed one arm, one powerful arm to extend from the confinements, seeing in world of light, and she _poked_ Amon. Hard. Right in the center of the sunspot of light that represented him in the witch-world; and she knew he felt it. She knew that he'd felt her mind reaching out before. He'd told her so himself, and that, she suspected, had been more of the reason he'd wanted her to stop doing it rather than fear of SOLOMON agents sensing it. He did not like the fact that she could, in a way, get_ inside_ of him, into his head.  
  
His grip released immediately and he drew back, looking at her. "When did you learn how to do _that_?" he asked--no, more _demanded _of her. She simply looked at him.  
  
"I've known how to do /that/ all along," she replied, lying somewhat--she'd known how to see in the witch-world, but she had not known how to be pointedly forceful about her intrusion...and she wasn't sure, really, when exactly she _had_ learned. "It's easy, especially when someone is so _close_." Her voice held a slightly accusatory undertone and Amon either did not detect it or did not care. He frowned, and looked at the sky momentarily, before taking a step towards Robin.  
  
She _poked_ him again, and then he scowled.  
  
"Stop that, Robin." He folded his arms over his chest; his size made all the more impressive by the large winter coat he was wearing. His eyes were barely readable pieces of charcoal concealed by the constant wind-shifting of his hair. "I know you're angry with me but that's no excuse to use that particular aspect of your Craft against me."  
  
She blinked at him. "Would you rather I incinerated you?" she asked, innocently menacing. He shifted on his booted feet and folded his arms further, tilting his head at her.  
  
"I'd think the first thing to be learned about being God's chosen witch would be that it's not very becoming--or mature--to run around threatening people and attacking them without provocation," he pointed out, firmly. Robin frowned at him, incredulously; the action of frowning pulled on her already too-tightly-stretched-by-wind skin.   
  
"What would you know about it?" she inquired pointedly, her face feeling frozen. What would Amon know about her, anyway? It seemed to her, mostly, that he didn't care to know much about her--just how to tell her what to do and how to make her unhappy.  
  
He shrugged slightly. "Probably a bit more than Gróa, and you were asking her--she's not even a witch, Robin, and you barely know her."  
  
_I barely know you, most of the time,_ Robin's mind interjected glumly.  
  
Amon cleared his throat slightly before continuing, having to pick up the volume of his voice a bit as the wind began to tear along at a new pace. "I know you're angry with me. You don't have to demonstrate your powers on me for me to know it."  
  
"What else would you have me do?" Robin asked, helplessly. "Nothing seems to make a difference to you--whether I was happy, or unhappy, or angry, or scared, or...or..._anything_." She cast her eyes to the ground momentarily, trying to collect a coherent train of thought that was somewhat logical. That, she figured, would be perhaps the only thing that Amon would understand--or at least make an effort to understand. "It was obvious to you, wasn't it, that I didn't want you to follow me?"  
  
"Yes," Amon admitted nonchalantly.  
  
"And yet you persisted," Robin continued. "I don't see how anything I did was wrong. You kept following me and I reacted. Isn't that something you would do? If you knew that I didn't want you following me, why did you keep doing it?"  
  
He looked directly at her then, the force of his gaze somehow not hampered--as it had been previously--by the obstruction of his hair. "Because I wanted to," he said, simply. The power of his direct gaze, as it often did, held Robin's captive. "Because I didn't really care if you wanted me around or not. I wanted to take a walk with you because I know that you're angry with me, and I hoped that I could somehow fix that."  
  
Robin's brain fumbled uselessly for a few seconds, and then somehow fed some words to her mouth--something, anything, to break her free of his nailing stare. If she kept looking at him like that and he kept looking at her like that she might never speak again. "You think," she began, with a lot less conviction and focus than she would have liked, "that you can just make people unangry with you just like that?"  
  
His eyes did not move. "You can't go on being angry at me forever, and I can't go on chasing you around trying to get you to not be angry at me forever. I shouldn't--can't--go on being angry with you and Nagira forever over something that's already done and happened. At some point there must come an end to it." There was a silence between his words, the stare continuing on into infinity. "You and I cannot survive without each other. If we're angry with each other and not communicating, it could be our downfall. And I am notoriously difficult to live with, Robin--you of all people should know that, by now."  
  
How was he doing it? Was it the stare, the words, the semi-truth stated within them? Robin felt the anger within her dissipating; a boiling pot of water taken off the burner and left to cool. In a way, she felt it wasn't fair--that somehow, no matter how angry or upset she became, she could never sway Amon...but with a few well placed words and an intense stare, he could change her entire mood. Whatever was happening, she couldn't help it, and she told herself that watching people and learning how to move them in the way he wanted them to go was Amon's specialty.  
  
"You should try to be less difficult," she said, feeling stupid at having said it. As if Amon would ever bend his will or change his ways to satisfy someone _else_.  
  
"I am trying," he offered, honestly. "I fear I'm not doing a very good job of it." One of his hands broke free from being folded against his chest and ran through his now very-much-wind-tossed hair, his eyes staring at a point on the horizon, as if he were gathering his thoughts. "I'm sorry, Robin." The words sounded so strange coming from his mouth, and Robin looked at him in muted amazement, knowing that he probably felt as strange as he looked saying those words. "You had every right to be angry with me. You _have_ every right to be angry with me. Today, you let me have what I deserved. I have known, for a long time coming, that I've deserved that."  
  
He looked down and over at her again. "Especially coming from _your_ mouth."  
  
Robin was stunned into muteness by the sudden revelations from Amon. Her mouth worked uselessly as the wind blew around them, and she knew that she should say something but she simply could _not_. Somehow, strangely, she felt as if _she_ should be apologizing as well, but it wouldn't come. Amon did not apologize, _ever_, and she wondered if that's why she felt as if she should--feeling as if she'd somehow forced Amon into doing something that he never did. Amon perhaps intuitively sensed that Robin pondered apology and shook his head, slightly.  
  
"I don't deserve an apology," he said, almost angrily. "I won't accept it and I don't want to hear it."   
  
"So," Robin said, after silence, attempting to squelch the feeling that she should be apologizing, as well, "where does all of this leave us now?" Amon looked at her and she swore that in a way, he was smiling, even though his face didn't appear to have moved at all. Had he won? Had she won? Was it a stalemate? And since when had she become so concerned with _winning_?  
  
"It leaves us," he said, amusement or pleasure or _something_ like one of them definitely present in his voice, "to taking a walk."  
  
--------------------  
  
Robin couldn't help but burst into giggles when she walked into the kitchen upon she and Amon's return some time later. Nagira was clad in a ridiculously small apron, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked at her as if he had no idea what was so funny, and shrugged.  
  
"How was the walk, kid?" he asked, and looked beyond Robin slightly, squinting. "And where's the ogre?"  
  
Robin came into the kitchen, stopping to peer into a large pot of something simmering on the stove--it appeared to be some sort of stew. Noises from a small cellar entry told her where Gróa had disappeared off to. "He's hanging up our coats," Robin replied. "The walk was very windy, but fine."  
  
Nagira drew a bit closer to Robin, simultaneously ashing his cigarette in the slightly abused-looking ceramic sink. Robin noticed a small pile of ashes down at the bottom of the sink; obviously Nagira had been smoking like a chimney, as usual. "Did he apologise?" he asked her, quietly, quickly. Robin nodded and Nagira grinned. "I knew he would." Robin opened her mouth to reply but at that moment the sounds of heavy footfalls alerted them to the fact that Amon was heading towards the kitchen, and so she closed her mouth. A few moments later sounds from the cellar indicated that Gróa was coming back into the kitchen, as well.  
  
Amon appeared in the kitchen's doorway, hands on his hips, hair looking more ruffled than it usually did. Apparently the wind had done damage that could not be easily corrected by his hands. "You look absolutely ridiculous," he quipped in deadpan at the sight of his older brother, who shrugged in response.  
  
"So do you, but I'm nice enough to never say anything about it," Nagira retorted. "Nice hair, by the way."  
  
Mildly disgruntled, Amon attempted to tame his hair with his hands to no avail. Robin watched him and was thankful for the fact that her own hair had remained relatively normal thanks to the amateurish knot she'd tied it in at the back of her head. Amon apparently had the same idea a moment later and pulled a rubber band out of his pocket that she presumed that he kept there for that precise reason. He managed to get most all of his hair into the band at the back of his head, but large chunks of it kept falling into his face and he grumbled.  
  
"Oh, grumble, grumble," Nagira said, removing the lid from the pot on the stove near Robin. He took up a wooden spoon and stirred the stew; Robin saw onion slices and carrots, split peas and some type of meat. "Get a haircut, you hippie."  
  
The look Amon favoured Nagira with over Robin's head would have melted steel and it was that precise look that Gróa was greeted with as she ascended the stairs from the cellar with a jar filled with a dark substance in her hand. She looked between Robin and Amon, a slight smile on her face. "Ah, you've returned. And how was your walk?"  
  
"Intensely scenic," Amon said, and Robin wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic or just plain _weird_. She turned to Gróa with a small smile. "It was nice," Robin added to Amon's comment. "It was very windy, though."  
  
Gróa nodded, opening a bread-box on the counter and pulling out a few thick slices, laying them on a plate. "It tends to be so in the fall and the winter. I guess I hadn't thought of that when I sent you two out for a walk." She shrugged, opening the jar she'd brought upstairs, and produced a knife from a drawer. She began to spread the dark contents onto the thick slices of bread fluidly. "No matter. You two looked like you needed some air."  
  
"Ah." Robin found she didn't really have much to say in response. She couldn't exactly thank Gróa for sending them outside thereby allowing Amon and she to talk without severely embarassing Amon. So, she kept her mouth shut and watched Nagira stirring with a vague, detached interest.  
  
After coating several slices of bread with what Robin had now discerned to be jam of some kind, Gróa turned to them and indicated a small table there in the kitchen. "Please, sit," she almost commanded and Robin did so without complaint. Amon followed her to the table a split second later and sat down on the end, next to Robin, who'd seated herself next to the wall on the far end of the table. Gróa pointed at Nagira. "That means you, too. I can finish from here, although you have been a wonderful help." Nagira, smirking somewhat, put his cigarette out in the sink and removed his goofy apron, draping it over the back of his chair. He seated himself across from Robin and winked at her as he did.   
  
Gróa began pulling bowls and plates out of the cabinets, and silverware out of the drawers. "I suppose I should have set the table prior to this. Oh, well. I don't entertain often." She laughed slightly. "For lunch today, my dear guests, we are having _hveitibrauð með lyftidufti _and _rabarbarasulta_, and _saltkjöt og baunir_ for the main course."  
  
Robin found one eyebrow raising slightly at the seeming gibberish that had just come out of Gróa's mouth, and, looking to Amon, she found him to be favouring Gróa with the most incredulous look she'd ever seen him display. "_What_," he began, somewhat dumbfoundedly, "the _hell_ is all that?"  
  
Nagira seconded Amon's question with a disbelieving nod.  
  
"Baking soda bread and rhubarb jam, and salted-meat and split pea soup," Gróa replied, obviously getting a kick out of the trio's reaction to Icelandic. "Doesn't sound nearly as exciting in English, no?"  
  
"It sounds like it's from this planet," Nagira said under his breath as Gróa set small plates with the bread and jam on them in front of the three. A few moments later she'd dished up the soup and set two bowls in front of Nagira and Amon first, and then in front of Robin. Finally, after she'd handed out all the silverware and napkins, Gróa dished up her own food and sat down at the last remaining spot--incidentally, the head of the table.   
  
"Dig in!" she chirped, and everyone did so. There was silence for a while as all four ate, punctuated only once by Robin's praise of the food. The blonde witch was pleased to discover that Amon appeared to be in the process of clearing both his plate and his bowl of soup; she often wondered how he survived on how little food he ate. Nagira, as he had before, appeared to be taking his sweet time in eating his food.  
  
"I assume," Gróa said suddenly, after the eating silence, her own dishes almost clean, "that you all have many more questions for me."  
  
Robin, her own dishes almost similarly clean, set down her spoon and looked to Gróa. "I never got to ask you--you said that you'd heard of us, before. You even knew our names. Since we haven't made contact with any other witches or circles, and you're no longer associated with SOLOMON, how did such a thing happen?"  
  
Gróa leaned back in her chair, her spoon idly twirling in her small fingers. "A justified question, I suppose. Well, for one thing, witches are pretty good at finding information about their own. It mostly all started out as hearsay, really--then, news came of what had happened in Japan, with the SOLOMON building--"  
  
"Factory," Amon supplied for her, picking up his piece of bread--already half-eaten. "I'm not surprised that Factory's collapse and the STN-J's insubordination turned some heads in the Craft-using world. It's not every day that SOLOMON completely loses control over one of their branches."  
  
Nagira snorted slightly with laughter at Amon's no-nonsense statement. "_I'll_ say."  
  
"In any case," Gróa continued, spoon still twirling idly, "news started to come out of Japan and filter out into the community. Naturally, witches wanted to know more...especially when the rumour that the incident had begun from _within_, rather than from without. So, certain witches--my ex-husband, included--started sniffing around for news."  
  
Robin looked over at Gróa, her face darkened. "Do they know of orbo?" At the mention of orbo, Amon's chewing slowed and he looked over at Robin momentarily, gauging her state, and then as if nothing had happened, he resumed chewing at a normal speed and went back to his stew.   
  
"They know enough," Gróa replied, just as darkly. "But let's not speak of that, now. More news started to be discovered--including that someone had eliminated a good deal of SOLOMON's top European Hunters, including the infamous Sastre." Gróa's petite nose wrinkled, momentarily, her face bunched slightly in disgust. "To be honest with you, I was shocked that he hadn't died already of natural causes. The man was rather old, wasn't he?"  
  
Robin furrowed her brow. "He never appeared that old to me."  
  
Gróa smiled slyly, secretively. "It would appear that the miracle of cosmetic surgery _is_ still a miracle," she said with an evil glee. "But it appeared that it didn't matter how much he'd tried to turn back the clock on his aging body--it was all for naught when he was burned to a crisp." She grinned evilly at Robin's embarassed, astonished look. "And that's when we heard about_ you_, Robin. And that's when we started piecing together the breakdown in operations in Japan, bit by bit. Not too long afterwards we heard about _you_," she said, nodding towards Amon, "but that was more because SOLOMON was in an uproar as to what to do about you."  
  
Amon looked at her pointedly, an eyebrow raised. "And how exactly did you hear about what SOLOMON was thinking or doing?"  
  
Gróa's secretive smile returned. "I'm getting to that. My ex-husband pieced together most of the puzzle himself, and a few other covens, I think, caught on as well--and that's when the word was out that top priority of every Hunter in the _world_ was the death of you two."  
  
"I'm honoured," Amon said. His tone made it rather obvious that he was exactly the opposite.  
  
Having been largely silent since the beginning of the conversation, Nagira suddenly sat forward and looked to Gróa. "I'm assuming it's an inside thing, right? It's fucking hard--" He stopped, momentarily, frowning. "--Pardon my French. It's pretty tough to get into SOLOMON's information, especially the amount of information you and your friends seem to be accessing. Believe me, I've tried and have had people try. Even if you _did_ work for them at some point...well, hell, these two did, and even they can't get information like you can, now." His finger drummed on the table slightly and one hand reflexively reached into his shirt pocket for his pack of cigarettes. "I don't suppose you'd have any kind of alcohol around, would you?"  
  
As Nagira lit his billionth cigarette of the day, the trio's Icelandic host stood and crossed the kitchen to a large cabinet, from which she produced two bottles of wine. "Take your pick," she said, her accent making her voice sound as if she were giggling. "Syrah or pinot grigio? Two completely different ends of the wine spectrum, I know, but my taste is varied."   
  
"Syrah," Amon answered, before Nagira could even get a word out. Incidentally, both Robin and Amon ended up with glasses of syrah in front of them, and Nagira opted for a glass of the grigio. Gróa poured herself a glass of the syrah as well. It appeared to be the more popular of the two choices--although, moreso because Robin didn't really know what she was picking.  
  
Taking a sip from her wine, the host directed her attention towards the smoking man again. "Well, I was going to get to all of that, but yes--in a way, it is a manner of...infiltration, one would say? You'll hear more about all of that when you finally meet my ex-husband, but it is very much the same with witches and witch sympathizers as it is with SOLOMON--they are much more far-reaching than many would think." Gróa raised her glass then, startling Robin into half-raising hers on an impulse. Amon _almost_ chuckled, which was as good a full-blown laugh from anyone else. "Here. I propose an impromptu toast in honour of whatever good fate delivered you people into my hands. I'd think," she said, casting a meaningful glance at each of them in turn, "that it was no coincidence that you found me."  
  
Amon half-raised his glass, then, as well. "Perhaps," he replied, enigmatically.  
  
"To the future, as generic of a toast as that may be," Gróa enthused, and then smiled at Robin who had raised her glass a bit more. "And not to put a load of bricks on your shoulders or anything like that, but from what I've heard there's a lot expected of you in this future."  
  
Before Robin could ask any questions, Gróa had already raised her glass fully to the rest of the table, and drank from it as well.  
  
Following custom the brothers and the saviour of all of witchdom did so as well.  
  
--------------------  
  
Noontime faded into afternoon, faded into dusk, and it seemed perhaps polite that Gróa be left to her own devices for the evening, since they had arrived so abruptly and, in a way, rudely. Most of the lunch had been eaten (very few leftovers, Robin and Nagira--afflicted by a sudden bout of late-afternoon hunger--had seen to that) and both of the bottles of wine had been emptied. Many things had been discussed, both relevant and not-so-relevant, and it seemed that perhaps even _Amon_ was seeing the point in reaching out to find other witches.   
  
Or maybe that had been the wine talking.  
  
The wind hadn't eased much by the time Gróa was seeing her guests to the door, Nagira shrugging into his ridiculous white coat and Amon helping an obviously impaired Robin into her too-big army-green coat. The temperature had also dropped somewhat, prompting a not-so-obviously-impaired Nagira to playfully tug Robin's fur-lined hood down over most of her face, snickering when she struggled against his big-brother-bullying advances.   
  
"Come back tomorrow," Gróa said, at the door to Amon, who was by far and away the soberest of the three. "Come back...in the evening? If you end up staying later than is convenient for you to drive back to Reyjavík, I can accomodate the three of you here for the evening. Tonight I will contact my ex-husband and others--by tomorrow evening at very very latest I should have news from them, information for you."  
  
As Nagira and Robin bumbled off to the Mercedes together, arm in arm, Amon watched but spoke to Gróa at the same time. "And my Craft?"  
  
"I only know what I know about it," Gróa replied. "But I can have more information tomorrow evening. Please do come back." She smiled up at him, a long distance. There was at least a foot and a half between them, possibly even two. "Even if you were a bit...upset at the beginning, I enjoyed having you as company. I never thought I'd get to meet you two--and your brother, while not nearly as notorious, still a very nice man."  
  
Amon found himself bowing slightly on impulse; a derangedly Japanese habit driven into him by years of living in Japan, being subjected to their somewhat bizarre--even to a semi-native--cultural rules. "Thank you for having us today. I...apologise for my behaviour."  
  
Gróa shook her head, waving him out the door. "It is not a problem. Go, now, but return tomorrow evening. I fear what will happen if your brother or the Eve attempts to drive."  
  
Outside of the door, wind whipping his semi-pinned back hair viciously, Amon looked at the tiny woman in front of him. "You called her the Eve," he said, half in wonder, half in confusion.  
  
"That's what she is, isn't it?" Gróa asked bemusedly, before slowly and gently closing the door. Amon turned and headed for the Mercedes, where it took him another five minutes to chase Nagira out of the driver's seat and into the back seat in order to begin the hour-long trek back to Reyjavík.  
  
--------------------  
  
Robin had developed the hiccups. It had definitely amused Nagira; he'd laughed out loud at the development. She couldn't be sure if it had amused Amon or not, she thought that perhaps it might have. Holding her breath for as long as she humanly could didn't even seem the fix the problem. Nagira suggested that he perhaps scare the wits out of her to attempt to rid her of the hiccups, but she pointed out, brain feeling fuzzy, that he couldn't scare her if she knew it was coming.   
  
The drive seemed to take longer than it did on the way there, despite the fact that Amon was driving faster than Nagira had been. Robin suspected it was the wine affecting her. Nagira chain-smoked silently in the backseat, until:  
  
"We should go out somewhere," he suggested mildly. Amon's brow furrowed immediately.  
  
"Like where?" he asked of his brother, impassively. Nagira shrugged, slumped lazily across the backseat.   
  
"Dunno. A restaurant, a bar, a club, _anywhere_. Hanging out with you two makes one long for a little...life, in their life. It's like I'm at a funeral in a car or something," Nagira quipped, pointedly ignoring his brother's eye roll. "C'mon, we've already got wine in us. Oughtta keep the ball rolling, you know."  
  
Amon was silent for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, face eerily illuminated from the instrument panel. "Not tonight," he replied after deliberation. "Have you ever stopped to wonder if, perhaps, Nagira, you have a drinking problem?" Amon asked. "You know, just a wee one," he added, sarcastically.  
  
Robin jumped into the conversation, feeling obligated to--especially after her brain recalled that it had recalled, in the recent past, that she'd been witness to Amon himself drinking somewhat frequently. "Amon, do you really think that Nagira is an alcoholic?" she asked, her voice gently chiding. Luckily her hiccup came after she had spoken. Amon did not answer, but merely looked into the backseat through the rear view mirror.  
  
"Nah," Nagira said, with bravado. "I'm not an alcoholic. Alcoholics go to classes." Flicking his cigarette out one of the cracked rear windows, Nagira kicked the back of Amon's seat insistently. "So does that mean no about tonight?"  
  
Amon deliberated again, for a moment, Robin watching him, hiccuping. A large part of her hoped he'd change his mind about the whole thing; it was obvious that Nagira didn't want to go out without his little brother. "Yes, it means no," he reaffirmed, and Robin turned away, disappointed.   
  
"Killjoy," Nagira accused from the backseat, unrepetantly. He was awarded with another eye roll from Amon.  
  
--------------------  
  
They returned to the hotel without further incident or much conversation. Amon handed the keys to a valet as they exited the vehicle, and the trio reentered the hotel via the lobby. Robin found her hiccups had still not subsided. By this point, they'd been occurring for about a half hour and they were starting to drive her insane--not to mention become rather uncomfortable. Perhaps, she thought, if she ignored the hiccups and pretended like they weren't there, they'd go away. It was a rather psycho-analytical approach to it, but it didn't sound any stranger to Robin than some of the things Nagira had suggested to her, like drinking from a soda while upside-down.   
  
So instead she watched people as they crossed the lobby, observing the various activities. Two people, a man and a woman, appeared to be having coffee in two wooden-framed armchairs that flanked a small wooden table. They were speaking Icelandic, which Robin understood none of.  
  
Gróa had gone briefly into some of the details of what her powers were probably beginning to encompass, and what they would more than likely end up encompassing. How Gróa had come into possession of such knowledge bewildered and confused Robin, but she wondered if it was better to just not question the knowledge of the woman. The deeper into conversation they descended with Gróa, it seemed that they all developed more questions. Tomorrow night, Robin told herself resolutely, as she entered the elevator behind Nagira but ahead of Amon, she would ask fewer questions and simply absorb more information.   
  
There was an imperceptible change in Amon's...aura? She didn't know what to rightly term it, only knew what it looked like in her alternate vision of light and darkness; a glow, a haze, a brightness that represented Amon rather than resembled him--or even a human--in any way, shape, or form. Oddly enough, and somewhat disturbingly, Robin discovered that since she'd used the alternate vision today to _push_ at Amon, she'd been having problems keeping her normal sense of vision and the other world's vision from coming and going, spottily. She wondered if perhaps it wasn't a side effect of the wine she'd drank that it had seemed to get worse in the last hour or so, but it felt..._different_, somehow. Her hiccupping persisted.   
  
Amon's glow had dimmed, somehow--not the bright flame she'd seen it as before, always. Why had it dimmed, she wondered--perhaps, his Craft relaxing? Or was it simply because he was unsure; wary of the new situation they'd been dumped into by no small fault of Robin's?   
  
These thoughts continued to run through her mind as she semi-stumbled, hiccupping pitifully, into the bathroom of the room that Amon and she shared together, partially closing the door behind her. The stumbling was part wine-induced, part-vision induced--it seemed that the room was darkening around her, except for the glow that eminated off her own being. _At least_, a small part of her brain reasoned, _you're not seeing anyone else save yourself and Amon. Remember what happened last time you saw others near you, in Amsterdam?_ The light beige walls of the bathroom were alternating between confining and disappearing into nothingness as her sight went from that of a normal person's to that of the Eve of Witches.   
  
Somewhere in the back of her mind Robin realized that she was starting to panic, somewhat. Her breathing was increased, causing her hiccups to become almost painful, and she gripped the edge of the bathroom counter, squeezing her eyes shut as if she was attempting to chase away an evil sight from her vision. She wondered why her actions seemed so familiar to her but the answer came to her in an instant: this was the same way she'd seem Amon attempt to pacify his own Craft whenever it threatened to gain the better of him. It didn't seem to be working very well for Robin, however.  
  
"Hey, kid, you okay in there?" she heard Nagira's voice through the glow and the gloom, and the bathroom door, and she swallowed heavily before answering, coating her dry throat with the lubrication necessary to form words.   
  
"Yes," she answered back, a bit more loudly than she'd meant to. She heard Nagira's voice muttering something about "wine" to someone--presumably Amon, there was a glow at the corner of her vision, in the gloom somewhere--and then the glow disappeared out of her immediate range along with Nagira's voice.  
  
It wasn't going back to where it usually resided when she commanded it, the vision; it remained, coating her mind, refusing to retreat back into the little box in the back of her consciousness where it remained locked up whenever she didn't want to use it. Her mind was beginning to ache with the effort of trying to subdue it.  
  
Somehow, blindly, her hands found the door and opened it, shuffling out of the bathroom slowly. Not trusting her hiccupping voice to call out for Amon or Nagira's help, she made her way across the room--her vision bursting back and forth between real time and the gaping darkness, towards the glow that she knew represented Amon--and opened the door that joined the two rooms together, fumblingly, awkwardly. One step into Nagira's room, her mouth barely open to speak--  
  
--her normal vision registered the form of Amon in front of her suddenly, in a blur; sprung from the place against the wall next to the door, and his loud shout of a word she didn't understand at the moment, her brain overloaded. Her vision switched, like a slide in a projector, and all went black except for the glow in front of her--and her heart beating at a million miles a second, willed her startled and confused brain into action. A small shriek issued from her mouth because a portion of her brain backpedaled furiously, knowing what was about to happen, but the larger part of her _pushed_ right at the center of the glow in front of her, in self-defense; pushed so hard that it seemed to distort downwards, slightly, to a funnel in the center.  
  
Then everything went _absolutely_ black, not even glowing present. Sounds ceased. Thoughts ceased. There was only nothing; blessed, light-free, nothing.  
  
--------------------  
  
Nagira barely had two seconds to register what had happened in front of him. One moment Robin was walking in the door, her mouth open, teetering on the edge of a word--obviously, she was done being sick in the bathroom, which is what Nagira had figured she was doing.  
  
The next half moment, Amon had leapt out from next to the door with a speed that was not nearly human and leaned closer to Robin, shouting the word _yamero_ in Japanese, loudly--a rare moment of joking, Amon had decided to scare the living hell out of Robin in order to see if he could cure her hiccups.   
  
A full moment, and Robin shrieked; Amon clutched his head suddenly in what appeared to be very _real_, painful confusion, his eyes somehow blank, unsteady on his feet. A half a second later, Robin simply slumped forward, eyes rolled back in her head, fainted dead away. Amon, still appearing very disoriented and disconnected from everything that was happening, moved forward clumsily in an attempt to catch Robin as she fell, but didn't get there in time and the young girl hit the thick carpeting with a muted _thud_.   
  
Nagira rushed forward, stooping to pull Robin up into a sitting position in his arms, her head lolling uselessly around and around in a semi-circle as the lawyer checked her pulse and her breathing, just to make sure that she hadn't just had a _heart attack_. Her heart was beating faster than usual, and her breathing seemed a bit accelerated, but after a few moments both began to drop to more of a normal rate. Nagira looked up to his brother, who was standing braced against a table, still looking shaky on his feet.  
  
"I'm glad to see that you're awfully concerned about this," Nagira said flatly, his eyes searing into Amon. "What the hell was _that_?" he asked, and Amon shook his head, dazedly.  
  
"My mind is _tingling_," he replied, when he finally did, about ten seconds later. Nagira raised an eyebrow at his brother's cryptic, strange statement. "She was _in_ my head. It feels like she still is, in a way," Amon said, distantly. "It feels like a burn right in the center of my brain--no, not a burn. The _afterimage_ of a burn, after you burn yourself and the area is numb and ready to blister."  
  
"Are you telling me that Robin..._burned_ your brain?" Nagira asked slowly, somewhat skeptically. Amon made his way, unsteadily, to the floor where Nagira crouched, cradling an unconscious Robin against him. His brother's grey eyes turned to the unconscious girl, appearing a tad unfocussed.  
  
"No..." The eyebrows above the unfocussed grey eyes drew together, in thought. "It's as if I stared at a light for too long, and now there's an afterimage spot in my head. It's as if she...shined a spotlight right into my head--" Amon broke off there, abruptly, his eyes starting to come back to their normal state. His brows did not relax, however. "She did it today, too, except not as forcefully."  
  
Nagira picked Robin up as Amon remained crouched on the carpet, trying to piece something together. He laid her out, gently, on his bed, and she remained there motionless as a puppet with no one tugging on the strings. His brother rose, slowly, his face serious. "To who? You?" Nagira asked, and Amon nodded.  
  
"While we were outside." He looked at the prone form of Robin again. "It felt like she was putting her finger on my forehead and pushing me away, but...it was _inside_ my head. I've felt her presence before, when she does this..." Nagira was watching his brother with interest now; he had never heard of such things coming from Robin--hadn't even known that she was capable of them. "She sees, sometimes, in this...I don't even know what to call it. The best way for me to describe it would be that she has some sort of...witch-radar. She can sense them, around, if she concentrates on it. Limitedly, she has the power to _touch_ them, I think. I'm not even certain about all of it, really--I could feel it, before, though, when she was doing it. I used to make her stop every time it grew enough for me to feel it because I was worried that Hunters would feel it, as well."  
  
Nagira was now just as serious as Amon, even though part of his mind was amused; imagining his brother's reaction to Robin being able to reach into his mind--who knew what kind of strange things she could find there? "I've never felt it."  
  
"You're not a witch," Amon replied, walking towards the bed. "She doesn't appear to be able to do anything to humans--not yet, anyway. Just witches." He sat down on the edge of it, still staring at Robin like she was a puzzle that the pieces were not fitting correctly in. "Before, it just felt like someone was touching my shoulder, this strange feeling of not _being alone_ in my head...but today, she was actually able to hone it enough to _push_ at me, when we were outside Gróa's house."  
  
Nagira too looked to Robin, hand on his chin in thought. His fingers itched for a cigarette. "Do you think she accidentally lashed out with it because you scared her?"  
  
"Perhaps." Amon's fingers pressed at the skin under the edge of Robin's jaw, checking her pulse. To Nagira it seemed that Amon's fingers stayed there a bit too long to be simply checking her pulse, however. "It's likely. However, my point is, that she was _not_ able to do this a week ago. Her powers may be growing _that_ fast. And obviously, they are growing too quickly for her to control them."  
  
Nagira's itching fingers finally gave in and fumbled through his pockets for his pack of cigarettes. "But you said that she was able to control it, today. I think it's just that you scared the hell out of her, Amon--and she _does_ have some wine in her system. Being mildly drunk coupled with being frightened...it's perfectly logical, you know, that her instincts may have just acted before her brain did." The snap of a lighter sounded through the air, and the scent of burning tobacco filled the room.   
  
"But then why would she have fainted afterwards?" Amon asked, pointedly. "That's out of the ordinary. And I don't think Robin would intentionally use an attack of such force on me, if she could help it." Nagira watched Amon as he stared at Robin, and his brain pieced together why--aside from the obvious--why this incident was bothering his brother so much. Robin had _attacked_ him, and Amon was, on some deep level, hurt by it. It was as if a child's pet cat had turned and scratched the child, hissing all the while. "It's finally starting to subside now, but that was an attack meant to disable and disorient a threat. With more force put into it, with more honing from Robin...that particular attack could probably stop an opponent's brain completely."  
  
Nagira exhaled heavily, shaking his head. He stode over to where Robin lay and Amon sat, and looked down at the two. "Now you're just being paranoid," he assured calmly. "While Robin may have been momentarily unable to control herself, I don't think that she _intentionally_ meant to hurt you, _ototo_--but you have to admit, you probably scared the shit out of the girl. She reacted without realizing what was happening, and maybe...maybe using something of that magnitude, what she did to you, sapped her."  
  
Amon was silent, watching Robin. Nagira sighed, flicking his ashes to the carpet. "You should take her to bed," he suggested, and Amon didn't move for a moment; he eventually stood and picked Robin up from the bed, headed for the door to their shared room.   
  
Nagira watched Amon leave the room, and wasn't startled in the least when he didn't return. Knowing Amon, and knowing what had just happened, Nagira already knew what his brother would spend the rest of the evening doing, or at least until Robin awoke.  
  
He would watch her. The little boy and the Hunter in him were both wary; and the Warden had been frightened into remembering, jarringly, that he still had a duty that entailed a horrible promise. 


	11. The Band Played Waltzing Matilda

Robin couldn't quite describe the feeling in her brain coherently upon waking. Rolling about a bit with her eyes closed, suggling under the covers, she attempted to piece together the fuzzy events of the night before and the even fuzzier thoughts of her brain. It was like a headache, the searing afterimage of fear, and cold medicine all mixed together. It wasn't helping her to piece together the events of the night prior any better, either. Underneath the blanket, she opened her eyes and stared into the very muted light in her own little cocoon; dawn, always awaking shortly after dawn.  
  
She groaned slightly, stirring. She was still wearing all of her clothes.  
  
"Robin." The sound of Amon's voice suddenly and inexplicably next to her, loud and serious, set her to scrambling and fighting to surface from the covers, startled. She poked her head out from under the covers, eyes wide and just-awakened-bewildered, to behold Amon sitting in a chair next to her bed, looking stiff and stale as if he hadn't moved all night. She blinked.  
  
"Where did you come from?" she asked, stifling a yawn immediately after. He regarded her evenly, a bit tiredly.  
  
"I've been right here all night," he replied, and Robin supposed that the fact shouldn't have shocked her. He sat forward a bit, elbows coming down to rest on his knees, eyes boring into her. "Do you remember last night, Robin?" he asked bluntly, and Robin's brain reeled.  
  
_How could I forget last night?_ her brain wondered, even if what she _did_ remember was very fuzzy and distant, as if it had been a billion years ago and not the evening prior. She nodded slowly. Amon waited for a moment to see if she had any words, but once she spoke none, he continued.  
  
"Do you remember passing out?" he asked. She'd heard the tone in his voice before; serious, even, neutral--it was the same voice he'd used to interrogate suspects with.  
  
She nodded again, vaguely knowing where he was going with all of this. She'd attacked him--step one towards losing control in Amon's mind. She wondered if even then, at that very moment, he was sitting in the chair next to her bed wondering if he was going to have to kill her.  
  
"What happened?" he asked then. Amon simply watched her as she sat up a bit more fully, leaning back against the pillows and folding her arms on top of her covers.  
  
"I remember I was having problems with...my sight," she began, trying to blow the dust off the surface of her memory with her words, hoping that things would become less fuzzy to even _her_ as she explained them. "I went into the bathroom, and things kept going from normal sight to...blackness, and glowing. How I see other witches, in..." She stopped. "I don't know what to call it. An otherworld, maybe?"  
  
Amon brought his hands up to clasp underneath his chin, his elbows still resting on his knees. "This world of darkness and light that you describe, that's how it is when you...reach out, and touch other witches?"  
  
Robin nodded. "Yes. I see other witches as little spots of light, more or less. But I see nothing else. It's like a photo of the universe, or something. My sight kept going back and forth, uncontrollably...and I was getting scared." She sighed, rubbing at one of her eyes. "I still had the hiccups, I think. I was trying to make my way to Nagira's room to ask one of you for help--although, I'm not sure what either one of you could have done to fix my sight."  
  
"So you entered Nagira's room at that point?" Amon asked, still playing the interrogator.  
  
"Yes. And you jumped out from..." Robin trailed off, trying to remember where Amon had come from, but failing. All she could remember was walking into the room and suddenly he was before her, in her face, shouting a word in Japanese. "...out of nowhere, and you said something. I don't remember what you said, honestly."  
  
Amon nodded. "_Yamero_. I'd decided that I was going to try to scare the hiccups out of you."  
  
Robin swallowed. "And then...it was like my brain _snapped_. It didn't understand what was going on, or where you'd come from, or maybe even that it was you...well, no. That's not entirely true," she corrected herself, shaking her head a bit. "Part of my brain did realize that it was you in front of me, and that there was no reason to be so frightened. But the other part just...lashed out. Everything went dark and all I saw was the glow, the big glow that was you--and I pushed at it." Robin stopped, blinking. "I...I didn't _hurt_ you, did I?" she asked, her voice small.  
  
Amon continued to look at her, impassively. "I'm fine. So you're telling me that despite the fact that part of your brain knew it was me in front of you, the larger part of your brain simply retaliated?"  
  
Robin frowned, shaking her head. "But it wasn't like that. It wasn't as black and white as you're making it out to be. I'd already been having problems controlling my Craft before I'd encountered you, and it wasn't as if I intentionally wanted to attack you. The larger part of my brain just...lost it, I suppose."  
  
Amon was silent, serious. "That's not a very comforting explanation, no matter how you put it. The fact of the matter is that you attacked someone- -it happened to be me, but it could have been Nagira, or Gróa, or _anyone_. You failed to exercise the control over your Craft that you need to have, Robin."  
  
She felt as if somehow he was trying to pin everything on her--even if she _was_ the one who'd lost control of her Craft, he'd had a bit to do with it, jumping out and scaring the living daylights out of her and all. If he'd been having similar issues with his Craft and she'd done something like he had done to her, she thought that he would have reacted similarly-- strike first, ask questions later. "You startled me. Wouldn't you have done the same thing if your Craft was irritated, and someone scared you half to death?"  
  
"This isn't about me and my Craft, Robin," he replied, and she wanted to groan. "I can't say how I would have reacted, but this is about you and the fact that you _did_ react. I'm not really sure what to think about all of it."  
  
She looked away from him, her eyes sad, her mind trying to formulate some sort of good reply that would make him drop the whole subject. She couldn't think of one. The seeds of doubt had been planted in Amon the day that they'd met Nagira at the airport, and now it seemed as if everything she did caused him to lose a little less faith in her, caused the seeds to sprout seedlings that were growing into full-blow vines.  
  
"You need to remember that I'm still your warden," he said, looking at her meaningfully. "I made a promise, Robin. It doesn't tread lightly on my conscience. Things like this are things that I'd rather forget, but can't. It'd be very easy for us to just go along and pretend that both of us had perfect control over our Crafts, but the simple fact of the matter is that we don't." He paused, his hand rubbing slightly at the very faint stubble on his face. "You realize that one day you will be immensely powerful." It was more of a statement than a question.  
  
Robin looked down at her hands, folded on top of her blankets. "I--yes."  
  
"Power corrupts, Robin," Amon said, quietly. "Even people like you. I'm here to act as a check on that power. And that means that incidents like this are going to concern me. I have to know that you're going to be able to withstand the strain of your Craft growing and that you're going to be able to handle your role--the Arcanum, the burden on your shoulders, all of it. If you can't, and you crack under the pressure, or you let yourself be led astray by the potential of what you could do with your powers..."  
  
Robin looked over at him for the first time in a few moments and was taken aback by the sad, tired look on his face. Amon looked haggard, wasted, over-worked. There were circles under his eyes, and his face _was_ slightly in need of a shave. She wondered if he'd always looked like this in the morning and she'd just never noticed it, or if his sudden aging had been a new occurence since last night. She felt oddly guilty.  
  
"...you know what I'll have to do," he finished, darkly. "Perhaps I wouldn't be capable of killing you, once it'd reached that point, however." He pondered that for a moment. "Your powers are growing a lot faster than you've been telling me. I wish that it was easy for me to ignore, but it's not. The simple fact of the matter is that one day, you will be exponentially more powerful than I am. I think that perhaps you've already reached that point in simple ability, but you just haven't learned how to harness it all properly yet. But know this, Robin." He cleared his throat, hand rubbing absently at his shadow.  
  
She swallowed.  
  
"If such a time ever comes, a time where you lose control and you become a threat to yourself and others--I will use every ability I have to fight you," he said. "I will fight you until there isn't a breath left in my body, if I have to."  
  
Robin shook her head, looking back down to her hands. "I don't want to talk about this, Amon. I know you made me a promise, but...I don't think it'll ever get to that point. I don't want to talk about us fighting to the death."  
  
He looked at her pointedly in the morning lightening of the room. "You think I want to talk about it, either?" Amon asked, the forlorn tone betrayed in his voice catching Robin off-guard. "I feel as if I have to, now that your powers are growing faster than you'd originally told me. I'd like to believe that you're completely incorruptible, Robin, I really would. I'd like to believe that I know one hundred percent that you will take every power that you will one day have in your arsenal and use it all for good, but I...I just don't know that. No one can ever know those kind of things. No one can ever really trust any other person completely, one hundred percent, no matter how much they want to. I can have all the faith in you that I want, Robin, but that doesn't change your potential for wrong."  
  
She looked back over to him, her eyes imploring. "But I trust you completely, Amon. I know that you only do what would be good for me--even if sometimes I don't _want_ it or like it--and I know that if some day, if I lost control, really and truly lost control, I'd want someone to stop me before I could hurt any innocent people. But...I have faith in myself that I won't let that happen, and I _know_ that it won't. I won't lose control." She blinked as he stared at her evenly and a trifle sadly. Amon looked decidedly hurt, decidedly depressed--and it appeared to Robin that as if the longer that this conversation went on, the more that he said, the more it took out of him. With every word he looked older and more exhausted.  
  
"The only person you can ever trust completely is yourself, Robin. Remember that. I'd like to tell you that it's good for you to have absolute faith in me, but I'm just a man. There may come a time where I will fail in something, and you will be disappointed in me and you will feel let down. Then you will be bitter, and it will be because you trusted me too much." He looked completely drained, now. "I don't want to ever let you down, Robin, but I fear that some day it may happen whether I want it to or not. It would be wise for you to not place all of your trust in me, completely. Matter of fact, I'd prefer that you didn't."  
  
Robin frowned. "That's a very negative way to look at it," she said, feeling somehow angry that he would ask her to have less trust in him. "I know that you're just a human, Amon, even if you are a witch. So am I. But I have faith, and I believe in you. Just because you might fail doesn't mean that I'd be disappointed and bitter--that'd be a very immature, petty way for me to act." She drew in a deep breath, still frowning. "I don't expect you to be perfect. I expect that from myself, but not from others. We're all just weak human beings, Amon, remember that," she said, and amazedly wondered how the conversation had gone from Amon giving her advice to _her _giving Amon advice. "We only have so much power, ourselves. The rest is up to God, and what he choses to do with us."  
  
"I wish that I could just try my best and put the rest of my thoughts with God, but I can't." Amon shrugged, rubbing his eyes. "There's not really anything else for me to say. We could sit here until eternity and debate the subjects, and still not get any further along. The only thing that is for certain is that time will tell." He stood a bit stiffly, one of his knees popping. "I'd simply wanted to figure out what had happened, and remind you of a few things."  
  
Robin looked over at him, sadly. "I won't trust you any less, no matter what your obligations to me are. I'm sorry."  
  
He looked at her solemnly, his eyes flickering but unreadable. "I know you won't. I'd hoped that maybe I could have changed your mind, but I knew that somehow, I wouldn't be able to. I'm not sure if your unwavering trust in me flatters me or if it makes me feel guilty."  
  
"It should do neither," she protested, gently. "It should just...give you faith in yourself."  
  
"I see," he said, vaguely dismissive and perhaps somewhat uncomfortable. Amon turned and walked over to his bed at the other side of the room, and sat down on it. "I'm going to sleep now. You can go back to sleep now if you'd like."  
  
Robin shook her head, tossing the blankets back and throwing her feet over the edge of the bed. "Absolutely not. You stayed up all night to watch me, now I'll stay up. Just like always. She watched him looking at his feet, silently, lost in thought. She looked down at her own feet. "I'll go to take a bath, if that won't disturb you while you're trying to sleep."  
  
He reached down and started to unlace his boots, hair obscuring his tired face. "Go ahead."  
  
She stood, moving slowly towards the bathroom as Amon pulled his boots off behind her, his movements a bit clumsier than they usually would have been. No doubt he felt extra-drained due to the fact that he'd not only been awake all night, but that he'd been awake all night _worrying_ excessively. Robin looked back to Amon slightly before reaching the bathroom door, to find him unbuttoning his shirt, getting ready to shrug out of it. She looked away, blushing. "Amon," she began, talking more to the bathroom door than to him. "I'm sorry I hurt you, and I'm sorry that I made you have to worry about these sort of things all night long. I shall have to be more careful from now on." She looked down, slightly. "And I'm glad that you're still concerned about my control. Thank you."  
  
He sighed, and she could hear him shuffling covers about. When she gathered the courage to look back, he was busy burying himself under the blankets, only his shoulders and his head visible, his back turned to her. "Please don't apologize to me, and please don't thank me," he said, voice slightly muffled. "You are what you are, and I am what I am. I'm tired and I'm talking nonsense. You should go take your bath, and I'll go to sleep."  
  
Robin nodded slightly, gazing at his hair on the pillow, his white, broad shoulders above the blanket. "Okay," she replied, and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.  
  
Being tired and talking nonsense was always his excuse whenever he actually _said_ something to her, not just spoke to her.  
  
---------------------  
  
She soaked in the bathtub for quite some time, and when she finally did get out and creep across the bedroom to her bag, wrapped in a towel, Amon appeared to be deeply asleep--as deeply asleep as he ever was. He'd stirred when she'd opened the bathroom door, and stirred when she carried her bag into the bathroom to get dressed. She imagined that he'd woken up both times.  
  
After she'd dressed, she'd recrossed the bedroom (Amon stirring again at the minute noises) to the door that conjoined their room to Nagira's. It was still fairly early in the morning, not quite eight am, but she figured that perhaps she could convince Nagira to wake up. Instead, she opened the door and was greeted with the sight of Nagira already awake, sitting in his bed, a TV remote in his hand. A cigarette was stuck in-between his lips and a perplexed look was plastered on his face, and Robin could hear the faint chatter of Icelandic TV as she entered the room, a bit timidly.  
  
"Good morning," she said, and Nagira looked to her, smiling, removing the cigarette from his lips.  
  
"Hey, kiddo," he said, grinding the cigarette out in an ashtray next to his bed, indicating the TV. "Just trying to make heads or tails of what's going on in this show. I think that this woman, here, is related to this guy or something...but they didn't know it, and now they're dating. But they're related. ...At least, I think that's what happening. Who the hell knows?" Robin entered the room, feeling a bit embarassed that Nagira was still in bed, and apparently shirtless. She sat down in one of the chairs and looked to the TV for a few moments, listening to the chattering weirdness of the Icelandic language.  
  
"How long have you been awake for?" she asked.  
  
"A while," he said, shrugging. "I heard you and Amon talking, and I woke up." He caught Robin's apologetic, nervous look, and shook his head, scratching at his disarrayed hair. "Nah, don't worry about it. I don't sleep very heavily, so just about anything wakes me up."  
  
Robin nodded. "Amon, as well. Well, I'm still sorry that we awoke you."  
  
Nagira shrugged again. "That's fine. He asleep right now?"  
  
"Yes. Although, he can probably hear us talking right now, too, and he's probably awake." She sighed. "I was thinking about ordering up some room service breakfast," she added, quietly. "Would that interest you?"  
  
"How about you give me twenty minutes and I take a shower and then we can go _out_ to get some breakfast?" Nagira asked, grinning. "Now that we know for pretty sure that SOLOMON's not in the country, we can actually go outside during the daytime like normal people."  
  
Robin thought about it for a moment, pondered how irritated Amon could potentially be, but then decided that it wouldn't happen. He'd probably even welcome them leaving the other room for a while so he could sleep, uninterrupted. She nodded, smiling faintly. "That'd be nice," she said, and Nagira rolled out of the bed, shirtless and in a pair of boxers, which led Robin to look away quickly, blushing. She didn't know if Nagira had noticed or not, but he chuckled about something.  
  
"I'll take a shower and get dressed and we'll go, okay?" he said, heading for the bathroom. "In the meantime, you can try to figure out what's going on in this damn TV show."  
  
--------------------  
  
Nagira and Robin caught a cab from the hotel to one of the small but bustling downtown areas of Reykjavík so that they could walk around a bit and do some exploring. Robin had been delighted; almost every time that Amon and she went outside, to travel by foot, Amon's paranoia kept them moving at a breakneck pace, no time for anything, only for moving. Nagira and she stolled along leisurely, not attracting any more attention than anyone else out on the streets (although Robin could have sworn a few people stared, amused, at her too-big heavy coat).  
  
It felt wonderful to be a normal girl, on a normal morning outing, if only for one day. It helped her to push the memory of what had happened the night before and her conversation with Amon that morning to the back of her mind, allowed her to momentarily forget it.  
  
They wandered into a small cafe along the street and thankfully found that, upon inquiry, most Icelanders could speak English. Robin and Amon's training with SOLOMON had given them a rather good grasp of the English language (as well as some others), and both were even trained enough to be able to speak it with little to no accent. Nagira, however, had learned most of his English in passing, thereby making it spotty and somewhat accented--more than passable, however. It'd been a very unorthodox breakfast, consisting of fish and fruit (Nagira ordered wine, as well), but it had been simple and delicious. It had reminded Robin of Japanese breakfasts, in a way--both Iceland and Japan _were_ island nations, after all, and both populaces consumed large amounts of fish in their diets.  
  
After they'd left the cafe, they'd spent more time wandering the streets aimlessly, leisurely.  
  
"Maybe, some day," Nagira said, "when more countries follow Iceland's lead and kick SOLOMON's ass out, you and Amon could live somewhere quiet like this and not be bothered."  
  
Robin blushed faintly at the idea of Amon and she living together forever, like some sort of bizarre husband and wife--but somehow, in the back of her mind, she knew that if they were ever separated that it would mean that one of them had died. "Perhaps," Robin replied. "It would be nice to be normal."  
  
"Well, we are talking about you and Amon, here," Nagira teased with a wink, hands stuck into the pockets of his fuzzy white coat. "It'd be nice not to be chased by SOLOMON, but I don't think you two are _capable_ of being normal." He grinned at Robin's look of quiet indignation, and then quickly changed the subject. "What's say we do some shopping?" he asked her suddenly, and she looked at him in mild confusing.  
  
"Shopping?" she echoed, then slowly shook her head. "No, no. Amon says I have too many things as it is." Nagira reached out and tugged on the sleeve of her ill-fitting coat, and snickered. Robin sighed--the coat was really starting to become a pain. "We couldn't find anything that would fit me properly, in London. Amon says I'm at the age where nothing is going to fit me properly, probably."  
  
"A growing girl!" Nagira teased again, and then shrugged. "Well, either that or Amon just doesn't know how to take a girl shopping. Well, it can't be helped. How about if we took you shopping for something _useful_--like a new coat, perhaps? One that actually _fit_ you?"  
  
Robin's brain warred. Part of her mind told her that no, it would be wrong for Nagira to buy her a new coat; especially when he'd done so much for she and Amon already, and after Amon had already been kind enough to purchase the winter coat she already had--even if it _was_ too large for her. He'd tried. Another part of her mind was so excited at the prospect of going out and doing something that could possibly be _fun_ that she'd really had to restrain herself immediately after Nagira's suggestion from bursting out with "yes!".  
  
And besides, she was getting really tired of looking like she had no hands, since they were hidden within the too-long sleeves of her coat. She looked like a little girl.  
  
Five minutes later found Nagira and Robin walking around inquiring as to where they could buy the young lady a new coat. After a couple of suggestions and a couple of instances where the person asked didn't speak English, Nagira and Robin happened upon a clothing store with some coats in the window, on display, along with several other articles of clothing.  
  
"Couldn't help to look," Nagira theorized, as they looked around the store. Robin set to work digging through racks of coats, most entirely too large for her. She frowned. Would it be that she would _never_ find anything that would fit her?  
  
A tap on her shoulder made her turn around, and she looked up into Nagira's grinning face with the same disappointed frown on her lips. "You're looking through men's coats," Nagira informed her, to which she looked greatly cowed. "Amon really _doesn't_ let you out much, does he?"  
  
--------------------  
  
Robin's old coat was tossed over Nagira's shoulder casually, and Robin felt extremely guiltily pleased wearing her new coat. It was a light grey-blue colour peacoat, one that Nagira said had complimented her lovely eyes and hair so well (much to Robin's blushing denial), and made of a heavy woolen material. It was very warm and actually _fit_ her--and she secretly wondered if she really _did_ look cute in it, as Nagira had told her she did. Her eyes had almost fallen out of her head at the price tag, but Nagira simply waved it off and smilingly handed the helpful woman behind the counter a few colourful, crisp Euro notes as Robin had fingered the gift box that the woman had packaged the coat up in. Once outside the store, she'd been all gushing thank you's and denials of her deserving the coat.   
  
On the walk back to the general area where they'd been dropped off by the taxi originally, Nagira suddenly grabbed Robin's arm and started dragging her towards what appeared to be a phone booth of some kind. She stumbled after his long legs in bewilderment, stuttering.  
  
"What are you doing?" she asked, and Nagira jerked his head at the phone- booth thing.  
  
"C'mon," he said, sounding like a big kid and looking like one, too. "We're going to get our pictures taken."  
  
There were several things, over she and Amon's life of running together, that he had expressly forbidden. One was telling people large details about themselves. Another was for her to use her reaching power. Another was for her to go _anywhere_ by herself. She'd broken those all before, a few times--all to the extreme irritation of Amon. But there was one of the things that he'd told her not to do that she hadn't done yet.  
  
_Never allow yourself to be photographed,_ his voice rang in her head, sternly. _I think the reasons for that are rather obvious. We're supposed to be dead. Dead people don't sit for photos.  
_  
Robin pulled against Nagira, weakly, but he ushered her into the booth quickly and then climbed in behind her, the two of them somewhat cramped in the small space. Robin felt faintly nervous, not only because she knew what she was doing was wrong, but because--well, Amon had been right to forbid her to have her picture taken anywhere. They were supposed to be dead--photos of them surfacing somewhere would just confirm their existence, and who knows what investigative methods SOLOMON had at its disposal, in the heart of the organization--what if they could trace photographs, somehow?  
  
Nagira fed one, two Euro notes into the slot in front of them, and then wrapped his arm around Robin, giving her a little squeeze. "Hey, kid, smile! It's a photo booth, not an execution chamber!" Robin gave a weak little smile and Nagira shook his head. "No, no. I want to see a _real_ smile. I'll tickle you if I have to," he threatened, and on cue his fingers dug into Robin's side sneakily, through her heavy coat. She began to squirm and giggle against her own will--how had he known that she was ticklish?  
  
Maybe Amon had told him? But Robin didn't think that Amon knew, either-- why _would_ he know?  
  
Nagira's free hand shot out and hit the red button that started to snap the photos, poking Robin's side all the while. For the second round of photos, the smile was still left on her face so that he didn't have to tickle her.  
  
Two minutes later they were off, down the street, each one of them holding a little strip of four photos, chattering about how silly they looked.  
  
---------------------  
  
Back at the hotel rooms, a short time later, Amon was awake and sitting in front of his laptop, shirtless and shoeless when they walked in. He turned to look at them impassively and Robin immediately looked away, her stomach feeling fluttery at seeing Amon so casually half-naked. He did a double take at them and then stood, hands on his bare hips--Robin frowned slightly, noticing that he was not wearing a belt as he usually was, and that his pants seemed to not fit him as well as they once did. They seemed a big large on him. The sound of him clearing his throat brought her back to reality to find him looking at her expectantly. She coloured once more and tried to feign calm.  
  
"Where did you get that coat?" he asked her, by way of greeting. She stuck her hands into the pockets of it, almost self-consciously.  
  
"Nagira bought it for me," she said, timidly. "I...I didn't ask him to."  
  
Amon looked to his brother, a disapproving look on his face. He still hadn't shaved. "Why did you buy her another coat?" he asked, voice betraying slight irritation. "She's already got two of them, the one over your shoulder brand-new. We don't have room to be hauling a massive wardrobe around with us, Nagira."  
  
The lawyer shrugged, lighting up a cigarette. His brother's ire did not appear to concern him. "This coat," he began, flopping it off his shoulder and onto the table where Amon's laptop sat, open, "was entirely too big for her. I know maybe you meant well by trying to keep little Robin covered up so no one would be scoping her out," here, he winked at Robin, "but it was just a tad excessive. So I took it upon myself to buy her a coat that wouldn't make her look like a five-year-old girl playing dress up in her daddy's clothes."  
  
Amon apparently had some kind of remark that he'd wanted to make about his intentions to keep Robin from being looked at, but he settled for merely glaring and sitting back down, looking back to his laptop. "I take it you two went out for food," he said, his fingers tapping the keys deftly.  
  
Nagira exhaled a cloud of smoke, watching Robin head towards she and Amon's room, quickly unbuttoning her contraband coat. "Sure did. You eaten yet?"  
  
"No." Amon was looking at the computer screen, rubbing slightly at his shadow--it seemed to be a force of habit, if a shadow was present. "I'm not hungry." He stood, looking at the computer screen pensively, his hands once again going to his bare hips. Nagira looked over at his brother out of the corner of his eye, lazily; while he wouldn't say, by any means, that Amon was wasting away, it _was_ obvious to him that his brother had lost perhaps five pounds or so. Without a belt present, Amon's slacks were considerably looser than he'd ever worn them.  
  
"You're going to waste away," Nagira commented around his cigarette as Robin reentered his room sans coat, tugging at the sleeves of her sweater. She sat down on the edge of Nagira's unmade bed. "You haven't eaten hardly a thing since I've been here."  
  
"Alright, mother," Amon said, irritably. "I'll be fine. I just woke up. I have not been awake long enough to be hungry yet. And anyhow, at the moment, we have a bit more of a perplexing problem."  
  
Robin, still tugging on her sweater sleeves, looked to Amon with ill- concealed nervousness. "Problem?"  
  
Amon leaned down and tapped a few more keys, then studied the screen of his laptop again before speaking. "Yes, problem. I was awoken today by my phone ringing."  
  
Nagira couldn't help but frown, gazing at his brother through the haze of cigarette smoke. "Your phone ringing. Wrong number?"  
  
Amon looked at Nagira with a slight tilt of his head. "No. Gróa."  
  
Robin's face relaxed instantly at the mention of the Icelandic woman's name and she leveled a curious glance at her ex-partner. "So what's wrong with that? Gróa means us no harm."  
  
Amon walked away from the laptop to the window, wordlessly, his hand under his chin, in thought. Robin watched the muscles of his back move under his skin as he reached up to run a hand through his hair, quickly. "What's wrong with it is that I never gave her a means to contact us, Robin. Nagira is the only one who knows how to contact that phone. And in order for someone to find out what the number was, someone would first have to get ahold of--somehow--the list of all of the randomly generated phone numbers that the phone has used on outgoing calls, and start scrambling them and running them through some sort of system until it finally came up with the number that was the _right_ number for the phone, not one of the probably _thousands_ of dummy numbers."  
  
Nagira was frowning then, too, his cigarette momentarily forgotten. He looked to his brother, in concern. "That would take some serious detective work. Not to mention a serious code-cracker or code-cracking program."  
  
Robin shook her head. "I don't think Gróa has those kinds of things at her disposal."  
  
Amon turned to look at her, his eyes hard and thinking; he was on the defensive, investigator mode--trying to put all of the pieces of the puzzle together. "No, most likely not. But the chances that she knows someone who _does_ are very likely, from the looks of things. And as far as I knew, most independent organizations didn't have access to those kinds of things very readily."  
  
Nagira was crushing his cigarette in an ashtray and immediately lighting another. "SOLOMON," he said, flatly. Robin looked from one brother to the other, shaking her head slightly.  
  
"No, no." She bit her lip. "Gróa said she was going to help us. Maybe...we've underestimated her. Maybe she _does_ have those kinds of things at her disposal, Amon. Maybe it was just a stroke of blind luck--"  
  
Amon looked at Robin, his glance steely but somehow sad all at the same time. "Robin, if we've underestimated her, it's more than likely in the sense that we underestimated her potential for harm to us. It's just too coincidental--I have the distinct feeling that we're being led towards some sort of trap that's waiting to snap closed and grab us by the leg."  
  
Nagira was pensive, thoughtful; all traces of the playful big kid that had been present that morning had disappeared. Nagira was in lawyer mode, working a case, the cogs in his brain turning as well. "She said something strange, the other evening--she mentioned that the influence of some witches in the world spreads even into SOLOMON, as in witch-sympathizers within SOLOMON, feeding information to the outside, to covens and independent groups. Perhaps...perhaps a double agent has gone double agent?" Nagira said, thoughtfully, ashes falling unheeded onto his suit coat.  
  
Amon nodded, gravely. "Yes. That could be so--perhaps one who was originally thought to be a witch sympathizer with ties to a coven is actually a SOLOMON-planted spy, gathering intelligence about covens and their contacts. What better way to kill many, many birds with one stone?"  
  
Robin was shaking her head, in denial. Something about all of it didn't seem right, at all--she couldn't help but feel that Amon and Nagira were jumping to conclusions. Deep in her heart, she'd sensed no animosity from Gróa; the woman had seemed truly interested in helping them. Robin wasn't about to give up hope on the woman so soon, even if she'd only known her for a day. "But what if the witch sympathizer _hasn't_ gone double-agent?" she broke in suddenly, causing both brothers to look at her. "What if Gróa simply utilized that contact in order to find us, to have a way to contact us and stay in touch with us? I just can't..." Robin sighed, looking down at her hands folded tightly in her skirt-clad lap. "...can't believe that Gróa would do something like that to us."  
  
"You barely know the woman, Robin," Amon stated, a measure patiently. She couldn't help but pick up on the slight "told-you-so" attitude to his voice, however.  
  
Nagira looked at Robin and then nodded almost hesitantly. "Hate to seem like I'm ganging up on you, Robin, but he's right. We don't know the lady. She seems nice enough, but then again...sometimes appearances are deceiving."  
  
Robin shook her head, more vehemently this time. "No. It can't be true that she's plotting something, that she's trying to hurt us--I think we're just jumping to conclusions. If she'd wanted to harm us, to hurt us, don't you think she would have done it yesterday?" Robin queried, pointedly. "She could have poisoned us all and been done with it. That'd be it, SOLOMON would have won."  
  
Amon shook his own head then, looking at Robin knowingly. "That's not SOLOMON's style and you know it. There's no way that they would simply just kill us, Robin. They'd want to, if at all possible, to take us alive and wring all the information that they could out of us--and who knows what else," he said, ominously. "This has a bad feel to it."  
  
Robin was slightly sour. "You think everything has a bad feel to it."  
  
"It's probably why I'm still alive after all this time," Amon said, either not hearing the sourness in Robin's voice or pretending to ignore it.  
  
Nagira looked at his cigarette crushed in his fingers, introspectively. "Only one way to find out which one of us is right--and that's to go to Gróa's place, tonight, with a few extra precautions if you know what I mean. I'm assuming that's what she called about, right?"  
  
Amon nodded. "Yes. As a matter of fact, she asked if that when you two returned it would be possible for us to depart for her home immediately. She said that we...had much to talk about." Amon held his brother's gaze meaningfully, as if they were both in on some sort of secret that the phrase "having much to talk about" held. Nagira went back to looking at his cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose.  
  
"Well, then, I guess we shouldn't disappoint," he said, a bit cockily. "We'll show up, a bit early--and if things look fishy, or something starts to go wrong--we'll be packing more heat than the sidewalk on a summer day, and things'll get swiss-cheese-ified _real_ quick." Nagira looked over to Robin, somehow managing a lopsided grin at her. "Little Robin can be our backup firebomb napalm support. We can call her in for airstrikes."  
  
"I still think we're all overreacting," Robin said, sullenly. Amon turned back to the window.  
  
"If we are, then we are," he said. "It's better to be safe than sorry. I suppose we'll just have to find out--but you must admit, Robin, that something could be happening. And you can't let your emotions get in the way of protecting your life just because you refuse to believe that someone is incapable of harming you." His words struck a peculiar place inside of Robin, and she found herself wishing that she could have seen his face while he was saying them, but he remained turned to the window.  
  
After a few moments, Amon excused himself to go to their room to shower and get dressed, and Robin and Nagira sat in silence, each lost in their own world of thoughts. 


	12. Cowboys

Mid-afternoon. The sky had darkened, swirling, the unforgiving Icelandic wind kicking up about fifteen notches. It whistled all around the Mercedes mercilessly, every once in a while threatening to jerk the wheel from Nagira's hands if he didn't hold tightly enough. Nearing the halfway point to Gróa's house, the sky became impossibly black and snow began to rain down, without abandon.  
  
"Great. Just fucking great," Nagira grumbled, watching as the snow began to slowly but surely pick up in intensity, the wind whipping it in at an angle, until he was forced to slow down to a little below thirty kilometers an hour. The Mercedes just barely inched along, Nagira unable to see anything more than three feet in front of him. The world was nothing but a giant blur of white, illuminated by the fog lights and the headlights on the SUV. Amon leaned forward from the back seat, squinting out at the road.  
  
"Let me drive," he said, and the brothers switched spots, bringing the cold and the snow of the outside in on their clothes when they finally closed the doors. Robin shivered, slightly, in the passenger seat.  
  
Amon's eyes stared ahead, unflinchingly, open impossibly wide. His knuckles gripped the wheel until they turned white, and his face broke out into a light sweat. Robin looked over at the speedometer--inching up, slowly, forty kilometers, fifty kilometers, sixty kilometers. They were going decidedly faster than Nagira had been, but Robin knew it was because Amon was pushing his Craft, seeing further down the road than any of them could possibly see.  
  
"Hey, don't go _too_ fast, now," Nagira chided, looking up from the back seat. "Even if you _can_ see, like, five hundred miles down the road or something, it doesn't mean that you have supernatural car-handling abilities." He lit up a cigarette and cracked his rear window _very_ slightly. "Especially in blizzard surroundings."  
  
Amon's expression did not change, nor did his eyes move from the road ahead of them one iota. "I can't see five hundred miles down the road," he replied, sounding as if he were deep in concentration, "as a matter of fact, even _I'm_ having a difficult time seeing right now. There's no colour variation anywhere and there's a lot of movement--it's not easy." Robin tried squinting ahead out of sheer curiousity, to try to see what was ahead of them--all she got for her pains, was a dull ache behind her eyes. Amon was right; too much white, too much movement. "I'm just seeing vague shapes right now, the vague curve of the road. That's going to become a lot more difficult to see once it's completely covered with snow, so that's why I'm hurrying. I don't want us to have to stop...unless you fancy trying to dig this vehicle out of a snow drift with your bare hands."  
  
Nagira made a face. "Ugh, no. Go faster."  
  
Robin looked to Amon, a question in her eyes--not that he would have been able to see it, since all of his attention was still focussed on the road. "This means that if you are right and something _is_ happening at Gróa's, then we could be potentially stranded there."  
  
Nagira leaned forward, suddenly, to poke his head in between the two front seats. The cab was filling slightly with his cigarette smoke due to poor ventilation. "She's right," Nagira said, seriously. "If there's something seriously wacky going on out there, do we really want to be stuck there in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by snow and no escape?"  
  
Amon furrowed his brow slightly, the cords in his neck tightening. Robin, looking over at him, noticed that he still hadn't shaved his face that afternoon, and that his shadow was intensifying. "We won't make it back to Reykjavík now, if we turn around. We'll be stuck either way we go, I fear." His mouth tightened. "We don't have much of a choice."  
  
Nagira looked between the two in the front seat, holding Robin's gaze meaningfully and turning and watching a droplet of sweat roll off the bottom of his brother's chin. "Someone up there _really_ dislikes you two, you know that?" he asked, dryly. Amon's mouth tightened even more, if at all possible.  
  
"Get rid of that damn cigarette," he said, irritably. "It's burning my eyes."  
  
---------------------  
  
By the time they got to Gróa's, the snow was being whipped by the wind so hard that it was coming in _sideways_, and whipping up off the ground in ground blizzards that made it even _more_ difficult to see. Gróa's house looked like a giant lump beneath all of the snow, and the trio stalked up to the door through the rapidly deepening snow, Robin belatedly wishing that she owned a pair of pants. Her tall boots were shielding her feet from the snow, and the fabric of her skirt was heavy enough to keep it from blowing up or anything of the like, but the freezing wind was definitely reaching her legs and making them numb. They reached the small home's stone front step, the door having no shelter around it to protect it from the driving wind and snow.  
  
Robin went to the door first, but Amon's gloved hand pushed her back and then reached up to knock on the door loudly, banging with his fist as hard as he could without _attempting_ to be violent. If she was in there, she was going to have quite a bit of difficulty hearing the knocking over the din of the storm.  
  
They waited about thirty seconds, Amon staring at the door expectantly, Robin waiting slightly behind him, shivering slightly, and Nagira behind her reaching into his coat sneakily to check his sidearm--supplied by Amon, of course. After no reply, Amon reached up and pounded onto the door again, squinting his eyes against the wind. Robin's face had started to get numb from the repeated whipping of the wind, and she only imagined that Amon's face must have been freezing, since it had still been slightly sweaty when he stepped out of the Mercedes.  
  
Still, no reply. Nagira took the intiative and stepped up onto the step next to Amon. With his own gloved hand he reached out and turned the doorknob once, decisively.  
  
The door cracked open. Inside, there were no lights on. Robin's stomach dropped an inch upon seeing no lights on in the house, and dropped _another_ inch upon seeing the _look_ that Amon gave to Nagira, who nodded. Nagira entered the house first, slowly, moving into the darkness cautiously. Amon went behind him, his hand already stuck inside his heavy coat, reaching for his gun of choice--a .440 Cor-bon Desert Eagle. Robin knew this by heart.  
  
Amon had taught her everything she'd ever need to know about the gun because it was the largest, the simplest, and the deadliest gun that he figured she'd be able to handle--in case she'd ever needed to.  
  
Which would probably entail her pulling it out of his cold, dead hands.  
  
His hand kept her pushed slightly behind him as they entered the house, the sound of the wind and the feeling of cold dimming some. Robin closed the door gently behind her, very quietly. Nagira stood in the front room, his gun already drawn. He wasn't about go for being polite and keeping it in the jacket until he needed it. He looked back to Amon, and raised an eyebrow.  
  
The house was silent. Dead silent. And there were no lights on _anywhere_.  
  
The .440 Cor-bon Desert Eagle had several different kinds of ammunition available for it. Robin's brain couldn't remember at the moment--nor was she even sure why she was thinking about the bullets in Amon's favourite gun, or why she was thinking about the gun at all--what all the different types were, but she did recall Amon mentioning to her that he always kept bonded-core hollowpoints, for the .440. The bullets had better ballistics, the muzzle velocity was increased, they--  
  
Robin's brain jolted out of its train of thought as Amon began to sniff the air, suddenly, his eyes wide. Nagira turned to him, gun out and at the ready. Amon's hand was still in his coat, and suddenly he brought it out with the gun in hand. He looked at Nagira.  
  
"I smell blood," he whispered.  
  
Robin's stomach turned. Amon and Nagira had been right, something was definitely wrong--but she had the feeling that it was not wrong in the sense that they had originally told her about. There was blood in the house, and it looked like no one was around--no other cars outside, no movement, only the snow and the wind and the awful feeling in her gut--and something was very, very wrong.  
  
Amon and Nagira began to move towards the kitchen, two tall figures moving in the darkness, both guns at the ready. Robin lingered a bit in the main room, feeling helpless. The hair on the back of her neck was standing up, suddenly--something was very, _very_ wrong.  
  
Closing her eyes, she took in a deep breath and _reached_ out, as far as she could, and her mind found Amon first of all, his Craft burning like the surface of the sun with the force of its current exertion. Stretching more, quickly, worried about her vulnerability while standing there in a darkened room with her eyes closed, she reached out to the edges of the darkness around her.  
  
One. Another, then, moving. Robin gasped and her eyes flew open, looking to Amon and Nagira. To her suprise, she found that Amon was already looking back at her, eyes wide, perhaps having sensed her _reaching_. He looked at her urgently.  
  
The wind howled around the house, whistling, whatever light from the daytime obscured by the blizzard. Robin pointed towards the back of the house, and Amon nodded, signaling to Nagira.  
  
Someone was there. _Two_ someones were there and they were witches--which meant that neither one of them was Gróa. Amon and Nagira moved towards the narrow, L-shaped hallway that led from the main living area, curving to the back of the house, and Robin moved slowly towards the kitchen, frowning and tense. _I thought SOLOMON wasn't allowed to enter the country, anymore?_ her brain whispered to itself as she entered the room where she had dined the day prior. _Wouldn't they stop any SOLOMON agents trying to enter Iceland?  
_  
She could hear the footsteps of Amon and Nagira going down the wooden- floored hallway.  
  
_Not if they didn't know they were coming,_ her brain answered itself, sadly. _And if there was something that SOLOMON wanted badly enough--like you and Amon--then nothing would stop them, not even a government ban.  
_  
She kept moving, her Craft tensed and ready to burn. Heading for the stairs that led down into the cellar, Robin stopped short, her breath sucking in gaspingly.  
  
Blood. Blood smeared, bloody handprints going down the railing--  
  
--gunshots. A bullet flew through the kitchen wall above her head, startling her shield into action despite the fact that the bullet would have sailed two feet over her head. The metal projectile incinerated, and she turned from the stairs, blood forgotten. Nagira shouted; the sound of more gunfire, bullets flying through the walls, and feet on the wooden floor. Robin headed towards the open doorway of the kitchen, breathing hard, scared of what she might turn the corner to the hallway and find.  
  
All she found when she turned was a bright flash of light issuing from around the corner at the end of the section of hallway, the part hidden from her vision. The flash momentarily illuminated everything as if the house was a microscope slide. In the split second of white-hot light, she watched the figure of Amon--hidden behind a small alcove wall that looked as if it led to a back door--turn and crumple to the ground. Robin's heart jumped in terror, her mouth falling open.  
  
Had her brain been so busy being stunned by the flash that she'd missed the gunshot? Without thinking, she started moving towards Amon's fallen form.  
  
Another gunshot. A thud. A strange sound, like the sound of a fire roaring--and then Nagira shouted her name in a tone that meant only one thing.  
  
_Danger._  
  
Before she could even think of what could possibly be happening, the fire-roaring noise returned and she was thrown to the floor from--from--_above?_ her mind frantically reeled, struggling desperately against some foreign, heavy weight. A loud, heaving gasp had escaped her at having the wind knocked out of her so unceremoniously.  
  
It was a man. It was a man, atop her, and his hands flew to her throat before she could even think. Her ears dimly processed Amon shouting her name, and Nagira's feet pounding, and the sound of her own kicking. Her brain compiled and ran through several different thoughts in the space of a millisecond, spurred into frightened action by the fact that her own hands pried helplessly at the hands that were at her neck digging into her windpipe, so fiercely that she found her air supply immediately and completely cut off.  
  
_Can't use the fire. Too close to me. Might be burned. Can't breathe. Can't move. I--_Robin's sight went black with her eyes still open, but she knew it was not the blackness of impending unconsciousness. It was her sight, sliding into the otherworld, dark except for beholding the light atop her that represented the man. A witch.  
  
Her mind lashed out, pushing into the light as hard as she possibly could. It distorted and bent, fell inwards upon itself. After a split second it had collapsed inward upon itself so far that the funnel in the middle had depressed and blown out the backside of the light, leaving a neat little tunnel through the middle of it.  
  
And suddenly, she could breathe. The hands at her neck loosened almost immediately, and the weight atop her fell backwards. Still dazed, she frantically kicked it away, her vision shaky and blurry, light dark light dark light dark. Hands on her arms pulled her up, urgently, and her wobbly vision beheld Nagira, staring down into her face.  
  
"God, _Robin_," he said, shakily. "Are you alright?"  
  
She nodded, the ache in her throat and the fuzziness in her head forgotten instantaneously. "Yes." She began to pull in Nagira's grip towards the direction of the corner of the L-shaped hallway--precisely where she'd seen Amon fall. "Amon!" she cried, frantically. Her vision was still too blurry to be able to see anything very clearly at all, and all she saw was some minimal stirring of the dark lump that was her ex-partner.  
  
"I'm fine, Robin," he called back, sounding nevertheless very injured, somehow. "I'm just...stunned. I can't see." Robin's brain semi-processed this but not completely, not really understanding how Amon could have been thusly stunned and Nagira could be fine. Then she started to pull in Nagira's grip in the opposite direction, towards the kitchen. Her pulling was so insistent that Nagira released her after a moment, startled by the force of her near-hysterical vehemence. He turned his eyes to the man lying on the floor, near the hallway.

Blood leaked from his ears, nose, mouth, eyes. Robin had killed him, somehow. Nagira's mind flashed back to Amon's words from the night prior, after Robin had fainted:_ ...but that was an attack meant to disable and disorient a threat. With more force put into it, with more honing from Robin...that particular attack could probably stop an opponent's brain completely.__  
_  
Robin ran unsteadily towards the kitchen, her hand fumbling blindly at the top of the cellar stairs for a light switch, which it found. The stairway leading downwards was illuminated, revealing that there was a very large quantity of blood leading downwards, streakily and spottily, as if someone had been injured at the top of the stairs and left to...  
  
Robin heard Nagira come up behind her, behold the sight in front of him and start to say her name, but she was tearing down the steps before he could do anything, her heart pounding. Her feet slid about a bit in the semi-congealed blood, causing her to almost lose her balance and grab the bloody railing for stability.  
  
At the bottom of the stairs, she turned to look into the illuminated cellar. A shriek escaped her mouth immediately, as Nagira appeared right behind her, breathing hard. Upstairs, Amon had heard Robin's shriek and hollered her name back, desperately, questioningly.  
  
There, in the corner of the cellar in a frighteningly large puddle of blood, was the crumpled form of Gróa. Upstairs, Amon continued to holler, his voice gaining in volume and level of desperation at the lack of reply from Nagira and Robin.  
  
Nagira grabbed Robin strongly and turned her away from the scene in the corner of the cellar, and then almost shoved her towards the stairs, which she stumbled towards numbly. "Go," he said. "Go to Amon." Robin, hands shaking and mouth dry, complied. Gripping the bloody rail for support, she pulled herself up the stairs, tears beginning to leak out of her eyes. The sounds of scrambling could be heard from the hallway upstairs and Amon's frantic roar of her name, as well.  
  
"I'm here," she called back shakily. The sounds of scrambling got louder the closer she got to the hallway, and she found a wide-eyed Amon on his hands and knees in the dark, staring at her knee level.  
  
"You smell like blood," he said, looking into nothingness. "You reek of it."  
  
Robin dropped to her knees by him, wiping her bloody hands on her skirt frantically, trying to get rid of the sight of Gróa's blood all over them. Amon's hands reached out blindly and grabbed her, staring into her face--more or less. He swallowed. "She's dead, isn't she?" he asked, his face drenched with sweat, eyes glazed.  
  
Robin shuddered, the full effect of the disgust and fear finally hitting her. Her throat, where she'd been nearly strangled, began to ache in earnest and she continued to wipe her hands on her skirt, repetitively. "She's--she's in the cellar," she began, stuttering. "There's blood--blood all over the stairs and the wall and the floor and she's lying there--"  
  
"_Fuck_." Amon's voice cut into hers, frustrated. He stared, unfocussed, into the middle of her chest, mouth slightly open, teeth grinding against one another. "I still can't see. Are you alright, Robin?"  
  
Her hands rubbed manically at the thick black fabric of her skirt. They still felt slimy, and as if she was possessed of Amon's Craft as well, she swore she could smell the metallic stink of the red liquid cleaving to her. "I'm fine," she whispered. "Someone tried to choke me and I couldn't--"  
  
From downstairs in the cellar came the loud, echoing boom of Nagira's shout: "She's still alive! I don't know how, but she's alive! Amon, get down here, _now_!"  
  
Robin's body jerked mindlessly into action the moment she'd heard that Gróa was still alive. She stood quickly, grabbing at Amon's arms fiercely, dragging him upwards with difficulty. _How could she still be alive?_ Robin's mind reeled in disbelief, her body turning quickly to support the unsteady and stumbling Amon. He held on to her as she guided him along, almost dragging him but for the moment not caring. _There's blood everywhere, all over everything--how could one person have that much blood in them, lose it all, and still be alive?  
_  
Amon's feet caught, unsurely, on one of the kitchen table chair legs, and she slowed her pace, gripping him tightly--as much for his own need for balance as for her own need for comfort. Unseeingly, his arm gripped back, tightly. She was shaking slightly as she helped him along.  
  
"It's going to be be alright," Amon said to her suddenly, quietly, as they descended the bloody stairs towards the cellar and Nagira, and the minimally-alive Gróa.

--------------------

Hi. It's Meris. I know this one is short and there's a lot of things left unexplained--like how did Robin manage to be attacked from above in a one-story house? What the hell is wrong with Amon? I promise these things will be explained in short order, in the next chapter--I'd just wanted to get this scene out before I lost the picture I had in my mind. And for those of you who are curious, or confused, or whatever about the layout of Gróa's house, relax! I have made a shitty diagram in MS Paint for you to peruse (and probably end up more confused than you were! HAR)

Here's the link to that (remember to type in the www bit and all): 

And I suggest that all download and listen to the song "Cowboys" by Portishead while reading this chapter. It's creepy and evil and reminds me of...this. I don't know.


	13. The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carrol

Never before in his entire life had Amon felt so frustratingly, agitatedly, fuck-all _helpless_.  Robin, evidently unable to deal with the sight of Gróa's body--which Amon could not behold, at all--had retreated to the opposite corner of the cellar to sit in the corner (or so Nagira told him).  Meanwhile, Nagira attempted to describe the state of the Icelandic woman's body to Amon so that Amon could act as the brain for Nagira's hands.

Amon was the only one among them who had any kind of even mild grasp of emergency first-aid--and, in a strange twist of fate that he knew shouldn't have _really _shocked him at all, he was the only one who couldn't see.

Sitting there on his knees in the cellar, feeling the wet blood seeping through the fabric of his pants, Amon stared ahead blankly.  For one panicked moment, he wondered if he would be _permanently_ blinded, then forced himself to push the thought out of his head.  Never mind the fact that all he could see was white noise--he had to try to help his brother to save the life of the woman who was _somewhere_ near him. 

Gróa gave a delusional little moan when Nagira rolled her over onto her back gently, at Amon's behest.  Robin sniffled miserably in the corner, at the edge of Amon's hearing. 

"There's a lot of fucking blood, that's for sure," Nagira said darkly, and Amon sighed.

"You're going to have to tell me where it's coming from, and what caused it," he said.  He could hear Nagira moving and Gróa moaning pitiably--the more Gróa moaned, the louder Robin's sniffling in the corner became. 

"Christ," Nagira breathed suddenly.  "She's been shot.  Twice."

"Where?"

"In the ribs and stomach.  You'd think they would have just shot her in the head."

"You'd think."  Amon sighed, gritting his teeth, forcing calm on his body.  "Feel for exit wounds on her back."

Gróa began to moan some more, and suddenly the sound of feet pounding up the wooden stairs was heard.  Robin was fleeing the cellar.  It didn't shock Amon that she wasn't able to deal with what was happening--she usually didn't even look at the bodies of the Hunters they killed, and nor had she ever had to deal with the body of someone they sort of knew, very injured and still alive.

"There's one," Nagira answered, after a few seconds.  "The bullet in her gut is still in there."

Amon gritted his teeth some more, trying to figure out how in the hell he was going to do this.

--------------------

The lawyer watched his flash-blinded brother staring into space, jaw clenched and teeth grinding against each other.  At this point they were both covered in blood, Nagira somehow having the presence of mind to remove his white coat before doing anything. 

They were sure going to get some strange looks when they returned to Reykjavík, if they returned there at all. 

"Amon, she's still bleeding," Nagira said, shortly.  "If you're thinking, you need to make it snappy."

Amon growled.  "I fucking know that.  We may be too late already.  If there's as much blood lost as you say there is, it's almost certain that nothing we do is going to help."  Amon reached, blindly, for Gróa's shallowly breathing body, almost falling onto his face in the process.  His hand somehow found her torso and delicately began to probe about.  He located the bullet hole in the ribs and nodded to himself, wide-eyed, and then moved downwards and groped about until he found the bullet hole in the woman's stomach.  He sighed.

"It feels like the one that went into her ribs is low enough to have missed most of the important things," he said.  "The only thing we can really do there is plug the holes and bind it, for now--try to get some of the blood to quit leaking."  He paused.  "You're going to have to somehow try to pull the bullet out of her stomach."

Nagira looked over at Amon incredulously, even though he knew that his little brother couldn't see it--he didn't even give any indication that he knew that Nagira looking at him.  "Are you fucking shitting me."  It wasn't even a question.

"I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be able to do it," Amon snapped in irritation, rubbing at his forehead, unmindful of the blood on his hands.  A large bloody smear appeared on the white skin of Amon's forehead.  "We need Robin's help."

Nagira frowned, shaking his head.  "I don't think she's going to be able to.  She doesn't seem to be--"

"Unless we have Robin's help it's almost _certain_ that this woman will die," Amon cut in, darkly.  "I'll deal with Robin's emotional backlash later, but for now, she needs to do what I tell her to do."

Nagira inhaled and exhaled deeply, suddenly wishing he had a cigarette very badly.  "Fine."

"Robin," Amon called upstairs.  "You need to help us."

--------------------

Upstairs, Robin breathlessly tore the house apart, looking for the items that Amon had commanded her to find.  The tears were still wet on her face but had recently stopped falling in the wake of Amon's firm, commanding voice from the cellar.  She had things to do and was in the process of doing things.

Boiling water--the pot was on the stove, quickly and haphazardly filled with water.  It was the only probable way of sterilizing things.

Find a needle--preferably one with a large eyehole, but any old sewing needle would do.  Heavy duty thread of some kind--preferably fishing line, but any heavy thread would do.  Clean towels and a bowl of water.  Tweezers of some kind and a pair of scissors. 

And lastly, if she could locate it, any kind of liquor or high-content rubbing alcohol. 

She found the tweezers in the bathroom and the scissors in a kitchen drawer, and tossed them into the pot of water on the stove.  It was starting to smoke and simmer, close to boiling.  Towels were also located in the bathroom, and a bowl of water was made in the kitchen, at the sink.  A needle and thread took Robin considerably longer to locate.  A needle--several, actually--was located in a sewing box on the top shelf of the closet near the front door, but no suitable thread.  It was all too thin and flimsy.  Robin reported this to Amon, who informed her that Nagira had located fishing wire on a pole in the cellar; she didn't have to worry about thread. 

The water was boiling.  In went the needles.

Hunting around some more, throwing contents out of cabinets and things onto the floor, Robin finally located a small bottle of Stolichnaya vodka in a hard-to-reach cabinet in the kitchen, and she added that to her pile of supplies.  The stove burner went off, and she ran as quickly as she dared down the stairs with the pot, its hot water, and its metal contents.  Back up the stairs and then back down them with the bowl of water, the towels, and the bottle of Stoli.

Robin tried not to look at the minimally stirring, moaning, bloody form of Gróa lying on the floor as Nagira dumped the water out of the pot on the floor behind him, as per Amon's instruction.  Out came the home-sterilized tweezers, still burningly hot, Nagira cursing as he took them up.  A hole in Gróa's ribs was plugged up with what appeared to be a handkerchief, semi-stopping the slow trickle of blood out of her body.

If there was even any blood left to run out. 

It was confirmed that there was as Nagira winced and stuck the tweezers down into a bullet hole in Gróa's barely-moving stomach.  Blood ran out in quick little rivers, causing Nagira to curse again and Amon to question, roughly, what was happening.  Gróa moaned loudly, her head lolling about on the concrete floor.

Amon groped for the bottle of Stoli and found it near his knee, and then unscrewed the lid.  Reaching over with a hand to confirm where exactly Gróa's torso was, he poured some of the vodka onto her, rousing more moans out of her.  Blood continued to flow, and Nagira continued to curse.

Nagira, at Amon's command, stuck the tweezers as far into Gróa as he possible could in an effort to find the bullet that was obviously still lodged inside of her.  In response to Nagira's probe, Gróa let out a delusional, choking gurgle.

In response to the whole situation, Robin turned and ran up the stairs, her heart pounding.  She slipped, once, falling onto her hands on the bloody stairs.  As quickly as she had fallen she pushed herself back up again, rocketing up the remaining stairs frantically. 

As soon as she reached the kitchen sink, she vomited.

--------------------

For the better part of an hour, Robin cowered upstairs, feeling utterly pathetic and wasted.  She just couldn't stand the sights and the sounds of Gróa--something she'd realized with a certainty while washing her vomit down the drain in the sink, earlier.  At the same time she felt disgruntled with herself, useless--if it'd been up to her, Gróa probably would have died.  She would have been too slow, too loath, unable to get over her own feelings and her own despair to help the woman.  Nagira had jumped right in, without complaint, and even Amon was doing his best to save Gróa--and he couldn't even _see_. 

_What's your excuse?_ Robin's mind asked her, disgustedly. 

She lay on the small couch, with her face turned to its dull, blue-clothed back.  She hadn't even _noticed_ the two dead men earlier, while on her mad dash through the house to find the things that Amon had commanded her to find.  Now one lay a few feet away from her near the entrance to the hallway, dead by her own hand, and the other laid dead in the bedroom, near the open doorway.  The one in the living room lay in a puddle of blood, looking as if someone had squeezed all of it out of his head.  That someone was Robin, even if she still wasn't too terribly sure how she'd done it or how it had all worked like that.

The one in the bedroom looked as if he'd been shot in the throat, the blood spraying high up onto the walls, spread all over the floor.  It ran obscenely out of his mouth like coagulated drool.

Robin found herself wondering why she'd wandered back to look at the body, after the fact.

From downstairs, the booming sound of Amon's voice calling her name rung out.  Hesitantly she rolled over slightly, so that her face was turned upwards towards the ceiling.  She did not reply, feeling sick at the very thought of having to go downstairs again and hating herself for it.

What would she have done if it had been Amon that had needed immediate medical attention?  Or Nagira?  Would she have run and hid just like she was doing?  Wasn't the Eve of Witches supposed to be stronger and more mature than this?

Amon's voice rang out from downstairs again, this time, a slight edge of urgency in it.  Forcing herself to ignore the bile in her throat, she rolled weakly off the couch and shuffled reluctantly towards the kitchen, towards the bloody stairs.

"Yes?" she called hesitantly. 

"You need to come down here and help carry Gróa," Amon called back, firmly.  The tone of his voice seemed to say _because I said so_.  "I still can't see." 

Robin found herself wondering why Nagira couldn't carry Gróa himself; after all, it wasn't like she was a large woman--and then immediately berated herself, again, for being so selfish and immature.  Slowly she descended the stairs.  At the bottom she turned and looked into the cellar with trepidation.  Both Amon and Nagira were looking towards the stairs; or at least, Nagira was and Amon was looking in the general _direction_ of the stairs.  Both looked sweaty and semi-worse for the wear, and both were decently covered with blood.

"She's still alive, somehow," Nagira said, looking at Robin.  "_Somehow._I don't fucking believe it."  Amon nodded, as if to agree with his brother.

"Stronger than she looks, perhaps," Amon said, and then frowned, as if perhaps just catching the irony of him talking about how anything _looked_ at that moment.  "Robin.  You need to take Gróa's feet and help carry her up the stairs.  Nagira will take her arms--you two need to try to keep her as level as possible."

Robin swallowed, the bile not leaving her throat.  "Is she going to live?"

Amon looked towards the direction of her voice, staring somewhere into her stomach.  "It's hard to say.  I'm inclined to say no, based on sheer blood loss from what Nagira has told me...but she has survived this far, and that is amazing.  She may not make it through the night, however...there could be a fair chance of internal bleeding.  We did the best we could, but we aren't surgeons by any means."

Robin remained rooted to her spot, taking in the discarded supplies all around the brothers.  The towels were bound around the petite woman's torso tightly, and her shirt and brassiere were both set aside near Nagira's feet.  "Oh..."  Robin murmured, trailing off slightly.  Amon frowned severely.

"Robin.  I'm not asking you to do this because I like making you suffer," Amon said, "but because I am incapable of doing it at the moment.  To bend her would risk tearing the sutures.  Now, I'm not going to ask you again."

The young witch's feet moved across the cellar floor like they were made of lead, and she stood near Nagira, trying hard not to look at Gróa's bloody, bleached-white body below her.  "Alright," she began, her mouth dry, her voice oddly detached, "I'm ready."

Nagira nodded, his face looking inexplicably sad in the corner of Robin's vision.  "Okay, kid.  Grab her legs, then.  I'll get her arms."

Together they maneuvered around Amon, who remained sitting on the floor, and headed for the stairs.  Gróa made a few weak mewling noises as they carried her up the stairs, and Nagira jerked his head back towards the rear bedroom.  "Let's put her in her room," he suggested quietly, as if the dead men in the house with them were taking naps.  Robin nodded, and they moved slowly into the rear bedroom, carefully stepping over the dead body in the entryway.  Once Gróa had been laid down on the bed delicately, Nagira looked to the dead body in the room with them with a heavy sigh.

"I suppose I'd better move our friend," he said, sounding relatively unconcerned.  He looked to Robin and smiled at her, reassuringly.  "I'd hug you but I'm covered in blood," he said.  "And somehow you've managed not to get any on your new coat, so I won't ruin it for you.  You gonna be okay, kid?"

Robin nodded, weakly.

Nagira nodded back, still smiling.  "You did a good job, getting all those things we needed very quickly.  I'm proud of you.  Amon is too."  He jerked his head indicatively towards the body.  "I'll take care of this guy and you go downstairs and get Amon.  He's probably trying to crawl up the stairs on his own, the stubborn bastard."

Acting on Nagira's words, Robin's body moved numbly out of the room--stepping over the body in the doorway--and towards the cellar stairs again.  As Nagira had suspected, Amon was waiting there at the bottom, holding onto the railing with one searching hand.  He appeared to be debating whether or not he could make it up the stairs on his own. 

"Amon," Robin said quietly, from the top of the stairs.  "Do you need help?" she asked, even if she suddenly realized that it was a completely foolish question.  Of _course_ he needed help. 

He nodded, looking upward.  "Yes," he said.  She descended the stairs, wrapping her arm around him and guided him up the stairs slowly.  "You vomited earlier."  It was a statement; he obviously knew.

"...Yes," Robin replied, feeling somewhat ashamed and childish.  "I couldn't help it."

Amon's arm around her back that had been gripping loosely at first, for simple balance, seemed to tighten its grip a notch.  "It's fine," he replied, knowingly.  "It is a fairly normal reaction for someone who's unused to seeing an alive, very injured person.  The first time I saw someone who was seriously injured and still alive--a very long time ago, when I was still in training in Europe--I vomited, as well."

Robin's brow furrowed, slightly.  "You did?" she asked, in quiet disbelief.

"I did."  His arm hadn't loosened its grip any, despite the fact that they were up the stairs.  "It's difficult to see someone who's still alive in such grotesque pain."  Robin led him through the kitchen, slowly, and he was silent.  "Take me to where you two put Gróa," he said, suddenly.

She began to steer her ex-partner in the direction of the back bathroom, noting that the body that had been in the room's entry previously was gone, and a bloody trail led from the original spot to a doorway on the left of the hallway.  Nagira had evidently dragged the dead body into another room.  He appeared in a dark doorway as she led Amon past, arms resting up on the doorframe.

"I'm going to put the other one in here, too," he said, to no one in particular.  "There's a storage room here."

"Fine," Amon replied noncommittally, allowing Robin to help him sit on a chest at the foot of Gróa's bed.  She disengaged herself from him and looked to their injured host, briefly, making sure the woman's chest was still moving.  Then she looked back to Amon with a sigh.

"Robin, I realize that this was very difficult for you," he said, almost out of nowhere.  His voice was quiet, as if he feared that someone would overhear.  He was apparently not aware of the fact that Gróa's blood was smeared on his face in several locations.  "You did well--you did exactly what I told you to do, and if Gróa lives it'll be in large part to your efforts."

"I barely did anything," Robin muttered dejectedly, the guilt and bile creeping back into her throat. 

"That's not true.  Your help was extremely important."  He sighed, looking up in the general direction of Robin's face.  "You may feel as if I had to really get on you to get you to help, but you actually complied a lot more willingly than most people would have, I think.  You did very well."

Robin gazed at him wearily, feeling utterly and completely drained.  Her neck throbbed and her ribs hurt from her impact with the ground earlier that day, and her brain felt disturbingly disassociated from everything.  "Do you think she's going to live, Amon?" she asked of him, her voice tiny.  His mouth opened to speak, but she beat him to it, quickly:  "I feel like I'm surrounded by death.  If she dies..."

Amon blinked, staring.  "Sure.  She'll live." 

Robin frowned, feeling tears stinging her eyes.  "Do you believe that, or are you just saying that?" she asked, a measure bitterly.  In the hallway, the sound of something being dragged across the floor could be heard. 

Amon closed his eyes and sighed, rubbing at his forehead with a hand coated in dried blood.  "Both, I think.  I don't know what else to say to you.  She may live and she may not.  I don't know."  His hand went down to the chest below him, patting it slightly, his eyes attempting to blink away fragments of dried blood that stuck to his eyelashes.  "Hey.  Sit down."

Robin did so miserably.  Without asking for his permission or knowing if it was even alright, she leaned against him heavily, her hands folded in her lap and her head pressed against his shoulder. 

"I'm covered in blood," Amon said, almost a reminder.  Robin looked down at herself and noted that Nagira was right--somehow, magically, she'd managed to get not a drop on herself.

"It's fine," Robin replied tiredly.  A few seconds later, one of Amon's bloody hands came up to hold her head to his shoulder, lightly. 

"You did well, Robin," he repeated, staring at the wall in front of them.  "I wish that I could spare you from things like this, but I can't, and tonight I even had to have you take the place either I or Nagira should have occupied."

Nagira appeared in the doorway silently, looking at his brother and Robin with his arms folded over his chest.  Robin looked up at him but said nothing and silently wondered why Amon hadn't heard Nagira coming--perhaps not utilizing his Craft, in light of the fact that he couldn't see, and his guard was somewhat down?

"I killed a man," Robin murmured, speaking to Amon but looking at Nagira.  "Not like usual--not the same, not as impersonal.  When I burn people, there's nothing left...nothing left.  Nothing left for me to see, or to think about.  It happens so quickly that I..." she trailed off, feeling like a monster.  "...don't even have time to register that it's a person that I've just burned.  But tonight..."  Amon's other hand moved over and blindly settled onto her leg, lightly.  "...I reached out, and I saw him in the otherworld while he was trying to strangle me and I...I _pushed._  And I...I went back and looked at him later--I don't know why--and...he'd bled from his eyes, his nose, his..."  She trailed off again, shuddering, closing her eyes.  Amon and Nagira let out two almost identical sighs through their noses and she felt Amon's head turn to the doorway, staring at the source of the noise, undoubtedly.

"...I didn't just kill him," Robin finished in a whisper, her voice low and disgusted.  "I _slaughtered_ him.  I...crushed something, inside of him.  It seems even worse than if I'd shot him."

Nagira straightened in the doorway and walked over to the chest, seating himself on the very edge of it, on what little room there was left next to Robin.  Surprisingly, Amon had not moved, even though he was now aware that his brother was in the room as well.  Nagira's hand, likewise crusted with Gróa's blood, was placed on Robin's back.

"Self defense, kid," he said sadly but reassuringly.  "You didn't _slaughter_ that guy--he would have _murdered_ you, wrung the life out of you with his own hands.  You did what you had to do.  And one of those bastards shot Gróa.  He tried to murder her and she's not even a witch."

The three of them sat there for a moment, unmoving, each in their own little world remembering the events of the afternoon turned evening.  There, sandwiched between the two brothers, Robin knew she should have felt safe and comforted.

She was more than slightly despaired that she didn't.

--------------------

Nagira watched his baby brother through a cloud of smoke, staring at him evenly.  There, unguarded, half-blind, snowed in, and out of Robin's sight (she was asleep on the couch in the living room), Amon looked fifteen years older and almost dead.  He wasn't just worrying about his baby brother, either, as he sat there and smoked.  Nagira worried about himself and Robin, as well.

"Can you see any better?" he asked around a cloud of smoke.  Amon nodded numbly.

"A bit."  Amon squinted dramatically.  "Mostly shapes and outlines, but my vision is coming back."

Nagira nodded slowly, staring into space.  "So," he began, "what _now_?"

Amon shrugged, staring into space as well.  "Our fearless leader is asleep," he said, and Nagira couldn't tell if it was sarcasm or amusement that he detected in his brother's voice.  "I am just the lieutenant."

Frowning, Nagira leaned back in his chair some, the wood creaking out through the silent kitchen and house.  "Talk strategy with me then, lieutenant."

The statement gave Amon pause and then he leaned back as well, staring up at the ceiling.  The overhead lighting accentuated the shadows on his face, even when his face was tilted up towards it.  "I am correct in assuming that we're pretty well snowed in, am I not?"

"Somewhat."  Nagira picked idly at his teeth.  "I checked earlier.  The snow's mostly stopped now, but unless some kind of plow comes through during the night ain't no way in hell we're going to be able to drive back to the city."

Amon sighed.  "Not to mention that we're more than likely going to have to dig the vehicle out of a drift, correct?"

"Correct."

"I'd say it's safe to assume that SOLOMON knows that you're here with us," Amon continued, a hand absent-mindedly rubbing at his now fairly-advanced shadow.  "I think you, moreso than Robin and I, should be concerned about _your_ life.  We are already wanted by them.  Nothing we do will change that.  Up until this point you were just a minor blip on their radar--and now, potentially, you've got even more direct ties to Robin and me than you had before."  His tone was severe and grave.  "You may not be able to return to Japan."

"That's not such a loss."

"Now," Amon said sternly, gazing up at the ceiling, "or ever."

Nagira shrugged.  "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."

The ex-Hunter made a thoughtful, gutteral noise in his throat.  "We need to leave this country immediately.  It took them this long to follow us, I assume, due to the difficulty they probably encounter in attempting to enter the country.  However, we cannot allow ourselves to think this place safe any longer."

Nagira nodded, sagely.  "I agree.  So where to?"

Heavy, pensive silence on the part of Amon.  "I haven't a clue.  Gróa was severely injured before she could put us in contact with anyone she knew--and to be honest with you, I am done with this little mission.  I think Robin is finally starting to understand that it isn't all just a big game."

As if she subconsciously knew that they were speaking about her, Robin rolled over audibly on the couch in the living room, the old piece of furniture's springs giving off a tired creak.  Nagira rolled his eyes towards the darkened living room and then looked back to Amon.  "I don't think she necessarily thought it was ever a game."

"She certainly didn't understand the consequences fully."

"She's just a kid, buddy."

"I know that."  Amon's reply was short and snappish, almost too quick.  It seemed to Nagira as if Amon had spent ample time considering Robin's status as a kid, and he had a decently good idea why.  Amon's Adam's apple bobbed up and down once with his heavy swallow.

"She's very old, in a lot of ways," Nagira amended, sensing his brother's inner turmoil, "but in matters like this--death, destruction, guilt--she's still just a kid."  He smirked, darkly.  "She isn't old and bitter and jaded like us, yet."

Amon tilted his head back down from ceiling-gazing and looked to the tabletop, squinting.  "Good."

Silence like a blanket settled between the two.  Nagira smashed out his cigarette in a bowl on the table, his fingers resiliently grinding the embers between them.  His mind chugged along, thinking of future scenarios, contemplating the consequences of the evening, wondering what their next move would be.  Amon appeared to be similarly lost in thought, his whole being heavy with his morose--and with good reason--mood.

"Gróa is dying," his younger brother stated in monotone after the thoughtful pause.  Nagira leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin.  "The room is _heavy_ with death, Syunji.  You cannot tell me that you didn't feel it."

Nagira desperately wanted to say that he hadn't, but unfortunately he'd been around too much death--whether or not he'd wanted to be--during his lifetime, and his brain silently agreed with Amon.  It was something that could not have been mentioned while Robin was still awake.  He recalled an instance from childhood, during one of the few periods in time that Amon had stayed with their father and himself in Japan.  A pet dog had suffered a stroke; for two days afterwards, the dog laid miserably on its side in the entryway to their father's summer home, barely moving, simply waiting to die.  Nagira remembered the feeling in the air, the scent, the very _taste _of death all around the dog.  Because Amon had been young and had seemed so preternaturally fixated on the dog's immobile, invalid status, Nagira hadn't wanted to say anything.  Memories of  a nine-year-old Amon--still at that point speaking mostly French and Czech, stubbornly refusing to learn the language of his unfamiliar father--laying on his side next to the dog rushed into Nagira's mind unbidden, the somehow morbidly touching memories of his baby brother lying there staring into the dog's glazed-over eyes, wordlessly. 

They'd known, together, collectively, that the dog was going to die.  And they knew, together, collectively, that Gróa was going to die.

"What do you wanna do?" Nagira asked Amon, his eyes beholding the twenty-six-year-old across the table from him, but somehow seeing the nine-year-old with the dog in the same sight.

Amon was silent for a moment, before replying.  "I want to sleep," he said, dazedly, dreamily.  "I want to crawl into a cave with my memories and my guns and my Craft and Robin and just _hibernate_."  He closed his eyes.  "If we could just sleep forever, we could be safe."

Nagira didn't know how to reply to his brother's typically cryptic admittance of despair.

---------------------

She was dreaming.  She was dreaming of blood and gore, of voices whispering and shrieking.  Everything was in darkness, however; the only way that she knew she was dreaming of the blood and gore was from the sickening sounds of flesh puncturing and sinews tearing.  The voices crooned and hissed, a sea of incomprehensible nonsense that no matter how hard she tried to focus upon, remained a sea of incomprehensible nonsense.

It was familiar to her by now, the sea of voices.  It was what she heard every time she went into the Otherworld--it was the voices of witches speaking to her, or trying to speak to her.  She didn't know how to understand them.  Normally they were just content to murmur to her quietly, reassuringly, every witch in the world's prayers coming to her as if she was their God--

--but in the darkness, this time, over the sounds of the flesh ripping and the bones splintering, the whispers were crescendoing into cries and angry, frightened banshee screeches.  They were trying to tell her something and they were tired of her not understanding. 

In the darkness Robin's sense of self curled into a fetal ball, her invisible arms around her invisible knees, rocking back and forth_--make them stop make them stop make them stop--_

And from somewhere in the distance, the shrilling sound of a bell ringing resounded through the darkness.

---------------------

Verdant eyes opened quickly, muscles tensing and breath catching.  Robin relaxed in the next second, the unseen horror of her dream fading into her subconscious.  Groggily, she propped herself up on an elbow and looked towards the light of the kitchen, her sleep-induced-light-sensitive eyes watering slightly at the sight.  Nagira appeared to be talking on the phone, standing near the kitchen table, and Amon was watching him like a wary animal, on the lookout for danger.

Who would Nagira be talking to on the phone?  She pushed herself up further on her elbow and the movement caught the older brother's eye.  He looked over to her solemnly, the phone against his ear.  "Uh-huh," he said, suddenly.  Amon looked into the general direction of the living room and squinted harshly, then looked back to Nagira.  "I see.  What the hell makes you so certain that I should believe anything you're telling me?" he queried suddenly, roughly. 

Robin, still a bit too sleep-hazed to understand fully what was happening in front of her, put her bare feet onto the wooden floor and stood, padding in the direction of the back bedroom.  The blood stains on the floor had since dried.  The light in the back bedroom was on and she could hear the sounds of Nagira's voice echoing from within the house.  Robin hesitantly nudged the door open all the way with her bare foot, looking in on Gróa with apprehension.

She'd bled more.  Her breathing looked shallower.  And Robin noticed with a twinge of horror and fear that there appeared to be a bit of blood near the small blonde woman's mouth. 

Her mouth moved numbly, her brain on autopilot.  "Gróa," she whispered in horror from the doorway, her hand gripping the doorframe slightly.  The woman made no indication of hearing Robin as Nagira's voice went on in the background.  "Gróa," Robin whispered again.  "It's me."

Robin nearly jumped out of her skin as the woman on the bed gave a throaty, gasping gurgle, and moved a little.  Paralyzed then, Robin hovered in the doorway like a small child at the threshold of her parents' room. 

"The Eve," the Icelandic woman rasped, sounding like a frog--or a life-long smoker.  "You've come."

"Yes."  For a moment, the young saviour's brain ceased to supply words to her mouth.  Then: "How do you feel?"

A croak.  "_Allt__ í Lagi_."  ["Everything is fine."]

Biting her lip, Robin decided that now would not be the most opportune time to remind Gróa that she didn't speak Icelandic.  The woman went on. "_Ég__ var að hugsa um þig.__  Ég setti mig í hættulega aðstöðu fyrir þig...Þetta er spurning um tíma."_  ["I was just thinking about you.  I put myself in a dangerous situation for you...and it's only a matter of time, now."]

The unfamiliar sounds of Gróa's language coupled with her sickly, gargling voice frightened Robin.  "Gróa," she whispered shakily, frozen in the doorway, "I...I don't understand."

"_Ég__ er villtur_." ["I am lost."]  The woman let out a gurgling sigh, and Robin nearly screeched when she felt a hand on her shoulder suddenly--looking behind her, wide-eyed, she beheld Amon squinting urgently into the room, silently.  "It is of no matter, now, Robin.  My ex-husband...he will find you.  This was..."  She trailed off, and Amon left Robin's side and made his way very carefully to the side of the bed.  Straining to see, he looked down at Gróa, shaking his head.

"I feared this was happening," Amon said gravely, to Robin.  "She's bleeding internally."  He swallowed, his face the impeccable mask.  "She is going to die."

"Yes," Gróa affirmed, before Robin could even protest.  "I took myself to the cellar...to die."

Amon nodded, looking down at the woman on the bed with a strange look on his face--strange in the sense that it was _understanding_.  "I know," he said in reply.

"We have to do something," Robin squeaked from her rooted spot outside the door.  Amon looked to her, shaking his head.  She blinked back at him.  "_Yes_."

Nagira appeared in the doorway behind Robin, looking at Amon.  "Is she...?"

Amon nodded, looking over Robin's head.  "Yes.  Internal bleeding."

"Aw, fuck."  Nagira rubbed at his cheeks, sighing as if he was allowing his whole soul to escape.  "Her...her ex-husband's on the phone.  Wants to talk with us.  He said he'd talked to Gróa today--I'm assuming before the Hunters showed up.  He said that they'd known Hunters were trying to work their way into Iceland, and that's why she was in a hurry to meet with us.  He says there's more on the way, but they're keeping them detained on the Continent--we've got two days, at most."

"Nagira, do something," Robin urged, looking back at him, desperately trying to ignore the choked sputtering noises escaping from their dying hostess.  "We have to help her."

"I don't think we can, kiddo," Nagira said, sadly.  "We--"

Gróa's weak, drained hand reached out lethargically and latched onto one of Amon's, startling the hell out of all three of them.  She rolled her head limply to look at him through slitted, glazed eyes.  "_Þetta__ er tilgangslaust_." ["It is no use."]  "End this."

Silence fell over all four people.  Robin's mouth dropped open, her eyes wide and terrified.  "No," she breathed in disbelief.  Amon squinted down at Gróa and only at Gróa.

"What?" he asked of her, solemnly.

"You will," she sputtered, a blood bubble at her lips, "end this.  Send me...away."

More silence.  Nagira exhaled heavily.  The phonecall--Gróa's ex-husband--was suddenly forgotten.  All that mattered was the woman on the bed.   

"Amon," he said, quietly, "she's..."  Robin's voice decided to find itself at that precise moment.

"No!" she hissed abhorrently.  "She's asking you to--_no_!  I won't let you do it!  You can't--"

Amon looked at Robin then with what was the closest to pure _anger_ that she'd ever found herself on the receiving end of from him.  He disengaged himself from Gróa's faltering grasp and jerked his head towards Nagira as he crossed the room swiftly.

"Sit with her," he commanded, and then he led the shell-shocked Robin down the hallway in a firm grip.  At the end of the hallway he turned her to face him and he looked down into her face, his jaw clenched and nostrils slightly flared.

"Robin, that woman is _dying_," he said, sourly.  "She's choking on her own blood.  It is coming up through her windpipe and out of her mouth.  She has_ been_ dying, very slowly, for several hours now."  He paused for a moment, staring into Robin's wide-eyed face, and then continued.  "Robin, if she wants us to end her suffering, it is the least we can do for her."

Robin's stomach turned at the very thought of putting someone out of their misery in such a way.  "But--" she began, helplessly.

"No."  Amon gave her a slight shake, his eyes boring into hers pointedly.  "Listen.  That's not a pet, or a cause for you to champion lying on the bed in there.  That is a human being, and she is _suffering_.  Neither you nor I, Robin, has any right to keep her alive if she does not want her to be--especially for our own selfish reasons."  She found she could not look at him directly.  "It would not be fair of us to keep her alive simply because we cannot let her go."

Robin sighed.  "But--"

Amon shook her again gently but firmly, his look somehow intensely bitter.  "_No. _ You heard her.  She went into that cellar to die.  This woman sacrificed her life for you and I, Robin, and the least I owe her is a quick and honourable death."  His face twisted slightly in anguish at the look of abject misery and disgust in Robin's eyes.  "Yes, Robin, you think me a monster.  But some day you'll understand.  If it was you lying in there on that bed, dying, and you asked the same of me--"

Robin shook her head.  "But I wouldn't," she whispered, defiantly.  "I couldn't put that responsibility on you."

"The responsibility of many people's lives are on my hands, at this point in my life," he replied bitterly, shortly.  "Yours would be more difficult than any, but don't you see that it would be my _responsibility_ as a human being to release you from your suffering?"

Robin shook her head once more, the feeling of shell-shock and disbelief not releasing their death-grip on her body.  "God would--"

"I am not sure if you and I believe in the same God, Robin," Amon interrupted her simply.  Her eyes slid down to the floor again, and Amon tilted her head back up to look at his with his hand under her chin.  "Often times, He doesn't act quickly enough for the likes of humans.  And that is when, at times, we have to take things into our own hands.  We cannot leave everything up to God."

Silence.

"You're going to kill her, aren't you?" Robin rasped miserably, her beryl eyes searching his leaden ones, imploringly, sadly.  His eyes conveyed their own horrible weight of burden and nebulous, crushing sorrow.  In the back of her mind she wondered if his sight had returned fully yet, or if he could even see her face in front of him.  Was he even aware that he was allowing his eyes to be that expressive, that _human_?

"She has asked me to," Amon answered lowly.  "It would be cruel of me to refuse because I dislike the idea."  His hand was still under her chin.  "I am sorry, Robin.  Someday you will understand."  He sighed brokenly.  "You may never forgive me, but someday you will understand."

As Amon turned and walked back into the room, Nagira looked up at him with a knowing look on his face.  Robin stood there in the hallway with her breath caught in her throat as the light from the bedroom grew fainter and fainter; Amon was closing the door behind him, slowly.  When it closed, Robin stood in the darkness and breathed shallowly, as if she were out of breath.

Somewhere deep inside of her, a part of her that felt ancient knew that Amon was right--but another part of her wanted to break down and scream and cry and kick at the sheer unfairness of it all.  The unfairness of Gróa being taken out of the world by SOLOMON Hunters, even though she wasn't a witch; the unfairness of having to just accept that sometimes God didn't work as he was supposed to; the unfairness of having to watch her beautiful, strong, impossibly sad warden take one more life. 

And when the door to the back bedroom opened and Amon came walking out, his steps even and moderated, his eyes glued squintingly to the floor, Robin stepped aside wordlessly to let him pass, and watched as he went into the living room and sat down in the dark in one of the armchairs.  He said nothing and did not move.  Robin didn't know if it was quite possible, but she found herself loving, hating, and pitying Amon all at once.  Nagira came walking down the hallway with a morose, serious look on his face a moment later, looking up at her once with detached reassurance in his eyes.  He headed back towards the kitchen, undoubtedly towards the phone.

Looking down the hallway, Robin could see the still, small body of Gróa Guðmundsdóttir lying on the bed with a pillow over her face and her hands folded atop her breast, as if she was to be holding a crook in one hand and a flail in the other. 


	14. Tiny Cities Made of Ashes

For Suze and Kate--thanks for letting teh husband and I invade your lives.

It was funny; really, how quickly things had seemed to fall apart. Both she and Amon had suddenly become very much incapacitated it seemed. Nagira was the one in the kitchen on the phone calling the shots, talking to Gróa's—_dead dead Gróa_—ex-husband, ensuring their safe passage into Europe or wherever the hell they were going next. Nagira had neatly woven himself into the fabric of their lives. It appeared as if he'd abandoned his own just as quickly as Amon had abandoned his to become a part of Robin's.

She'd sat in the kitchen with Nagira for quite some time. No tears fell to her great shock and mildly, to her consternation—why _couldn't_ she cry for Gróa? Even though she hadn't known the woman that well, she'd still helped them immensely and been a good person at heart. Robin had innately sensed that from the very beginning. She'd known that she could trust Gróa from the moment she laid eyes upon her. And where had it gotten Gróa?

She was in her bedroom now, a pillow over her face, her arms folded over her chest like some sort of Old Kingdom mummy.

The three men that had been directly and indirectly responsible for Gróa's death were lying dead in the storage room and lying on the couch in the living room, pretending to be dead.

Nagira, caring older-brother type that he was, had pushed his magically never-ending pack of cigarettes across the kitchen table to Robin while he talked on the phone in broken English and fluent Japanese. Robin smoked one, then two, then three. After the third she felt sick to her stomach; hot and light-headed, so she stopped.

Amon hadn't been on the couch originally. He had gone to an armchair immediately after the incident in the bedroom—later he'd migrated to the couch with a very audible, exhausted _flop_ and Robin hadn't felt or heard him move since. Semi-afraid, she stayed in the kitchen with Nagira. Something in her wouldn't let her go to Amon—couldn't let her go to Amon, because as much as her heart and her body pulled her in the direction of his obviously troubled soul, her brain screamed _no no no no no he KILLED her_.

_But she asked him to, Robin. You heard her say it herself. She longed to die. He was right. Are you angry that he did it or even angrier that he was able to do it, whereas you could not have?_

She looked at the man across the table from her, her feet bare and cold on the wooden chairs. Nagira's slightly lined face was partially hidden behind a negligee wall of smoke, his eyes staring into space as he listened to the voice through the phone. Something was happening; thank Jesus for Nagira being able to hold it all together whereas she could not, whereas she knew Amon was not. Amon was—the part of her that pulled towards his soul knew; it _knew_ that something was wrong, that he would ordinarily would not have just lain down on the couch and let someone else take charge of the situation. It wasn't his style. Her mind pulled in multiple directions at once, a mish-mash of voices all shrieking at her in both triumph and defeat: _You know, he was right—you can't do this. You're not capable enough to do this. You're not even an adult yet, let alone mature enough to be the Eve of Witches. But for once, he's not so mighty either! He's not the all-mighty, all-powerful warden he assumes to be! Not so much different now that he has to come down off his high horse and live with the rest of the dirty, dirty world, isn't he?_

Robin cringed slightly; she wasn't quite sure where the voices inside of her where coming from. Her own inner voices had never been quite as malicious, had they? Especially not towards _Amon_. Nagira was nodded sagely, phone against his ear, cigarette dangling from his lips. Bloodied and haggard, he looked like the retro-stock broker from Hell; dress-shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair slicked back, shadow growing in but sideburns trim, shoulders squared and cigarette positioned in a masculine manner. He looked important. He looked capable.

He looked like exactly what Robin and Amon needed at the moment—a big brother.

Nothing was as it should have been. Robin's brain wondered feverishly, in a house and a life surrounded by death, if it ever would be again.

Nagira watched the girl-woman across from him and lamented. He lamented that a face should ever have to look that sad that early in its life.

And he looked to the unmoving lump that was his baby brother on the couch in the darkened living room, and his heart ached.

Neither one of them deserved this. They deserved to be somewhere far away, living together—possibly owning a vineyard or something ridiculous like that—something where Robin could feel feminine and needed, tending a house; where Amon could feel manly and useful, tending fields with his hands and providing. And they deserved to be normal human beings for two point five seconds, a normal man and woman who could meet and fall in love and court despite the age difference between them; build a future and be happy regardless of the fact that they had abnormal powers, that they were wanted, that they could kill and had killed.

Powers or no powers, they were human. And that had been the championing cause of Nagira's life—humans deserve to live. No matter what.

The pale, sad, blonde girl in front of him and his baby brother on the couch—eternally nine years old and crying, looking into a dying dog's eyes—were the most important things in the world to him somehow. And damnit, if he had to die to help them, if he had to sacrifice his own life to help them, it didn't really matter.

In the end they were much more important than he was anyway.

And he could have sighed with relief when Robin stood; the entirety of her small frame aching with the need to hold and be held, and slunk off towards the dark living room silently in bare feet. Amon did not stir.

Nagira listened to the vaguely crackly voice in his ear, half in broken English, half in broken Japanese. For one night he could take the burden away from them. For one night he would lead the running. They could sleep.

Robin crept into the living room, her whole body tense and taut with the effort of being so silent. She squinted in the darkness, the sounds of Nagira murmuring on the phone in the kitchen echoing out into the living room. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted out into the darkened room; it lingered on her clothing and her fingers, her breath, her being. Death lingered in the house as well and like the smoke it lingered on her being. Every inch of her smelt of smoke and death and weariness.

He appeared to be sleeping. Robin moved silently, stealthily. At the side of the couch, amazingly, he had not awoken to her presence. His arms were folded over his head as if he wished to block himself from something; a blow, a menacing being.

She sunk down to her knees next to the couch, next to Amon's still unusually un-alert body. His side rose and fell with the intake of his sleeping breath, the soft noises of a slumbering human body escaping him. Robin watched for a moment, awestruck, no matter how hard she tried not to be and then slowly lowered her head down onto the couch next to his chest, a giant sigh escaping her. Amon's body jolted slightly; alert and aware of the presence of another human in close proximity.

Another sigh escaped her as she sat on her knees, hands folded in her lap, head lying on the couch next to his body like a supplicant at a shrine. His hand awkwardly alit on her head, resting on her hair heavily. "Robin," he muttered, his voice sleep-tainted and groggy.

Yet another sigh escaped her, shuddering and heaving. "I'm sorry I woke you up," she whispered. "It's so late."

A deviation from the normal, Amon was seemingly slow to rouse from his slumbering state, as if he were drugged. "Huh?" he muttered, highly uncharacteristic of him. "Oh," he said, half-sighing himself. His hand patted her head clumsily, smoothing the maize-blonde hair. "It's fine." Amon's arms moved away from his head slightly revealing a still somewhat blood-stained face, deeply shadowed and drowsy, squinting and blinking. "Where's Nagira?" he croaked, coming awake in steps.

"He's in the kitchen," Robin replied with her face still pressed into the worn fabric of Gróa's couch. "He's still talking to her former husband. I'm not sure what's happening."

"Ah." Amon blinked at her squintily, as if the very scant light hurt his eyes. Gusting breath issued from his nostrils and his large form shifted on the couch. "What're you doing?" he asked confusedly. He sounded as if he was still three-fourths asleep.

Robin opened her eyes to stare at the darkness-obscured pattern of the fabric on the couch, her eyes burning distinctly. Crying, crying. Always crying—especially lately. There _was_ a grain of truth to teenagers and their see-saw emotions. "I don't know," she replied dejectedly, face smashed into the cushions. She could feel him watching her and that only seemed to intensify the burning in her eyes. "I...I don't want to do this, anymore, Amon." There. She'd said it. She was a coward, then; and she was crying. Her tears ran down her nose, dripping desolately onto the faded material of the sofa. Amon snuffled a bit and cleared his throat.

"_Robin_." His voice was low and sleepy, more considerate than it had ever sounded to her. A shushing noise issued forth from his mouth and his hand came back to her head firmly. "Robin. C'mon. Get up off the floor."

"But I..." Robin made a soft mewl of shock and protest as Amon's hands settled on her folded arms and pulled her up, forcing her to slide halfway up onto the couch. Still she was uncooperative, mostly because she was ashamed that she was crying and in some ways desperately craving his attention but wishing that she had never sought it out at all. Her eyes were clamped shut tightly, not allowing her to look at him.

"Come here, you," he said, his usually commanding voice retaining its current drowsy lowness. "Get up off the floor."

Robin complied, mortified and comforted. Her body stretched out on the couch along his, the narrow space of the piece of furniture not allowing her any choice but to be pressed against him. Her face burned despite her current state. Amon's arms wound around her side, around the back of her head and held her to him. Powers that be help her, Robin couldn't help but cry silently into him then that the arms were around her then that it felt safe to do so, then that she felt that it was alright to be a girl for a moment and not the Eve of Witches, not someone who was running for their life.

"I'm sorry, Robin," he said above her head, his chin resting atop it. She sniffled and wept and held her arms tightly against her chest, not daring enough to hold to him as he did to her. The hand on her head smoothed her hair and he shushed her again. "Don't cry."

Teeth chattering against each other in the effort to suppress her tears, Robin glared into the darkness of his chest. "Why should I not cry? Everything we touch, everywhere we go is death. Today—yesterday—whichever, the days are all the same now—I was so _happy_ when I went out with Nagira. We were...just like everyone else, Amon. Like it used to be. Like I could pretend, like I used to be able to, that I was just a girl like any other. I don't _want_ to be the saviour of witchkind anymore."

Amon was silent.

"I'm not strong enough to do it," she went on in a whispering voice. The murmur of Nagira's voice on the phone continued in the kitchen. "It should have been someone else. I couldn't even bring myself to look at Gróa tonight. I would have kept her alive forever until she died a horrible and painful death because I couldn't bring myself to...to..." A soft desperate, choked noise escaped her. "You were right. This is wrong. Let's just go back to Europe—to the United States—to anywhere. I don't care anymore. I just want this to stop." Fresh tears leaked anew from her eyes at the prospect of living for the rest of her life like this, running constantly, constantly surrounded by death.

Amon's arms tightened around her exponentially, and he made a small noise. "Robin, we can't go back now. We've opened Pandora's Box, in a way. There are events in motion now that only going back through time would enable us to undo. It will not be like this forever. I promise."

Something in the warden's brain heard the unspoken question in the ward's brain and he replied applicably.

"I don't break my promises, Robin." His grip remained firm. "It is not going to be like this forever. I would rather die." He paused, swallowing. "And I don't want to die."

Silence reigned between them, Robin's tears falling quietly into Amon's bloody shirt, his hands holding him to her possessively. Nagira's voice drifted into the living room in accented English and fluent Japanese.

"And I would rather die than see harm come to you or my brother," he continued after the pause, his voice low, intended only for her to hear. "That means harm of the physical or mental variety. I am sorry that you had to see what you did tonight."

It was Robin's turn to be taciturn then, her nose buried in Amon's chest, against the mild crustiness of his shirt. She knew it was Gróa's blood and that disturbed her, but her need to be held and comforted outweighed her disturbance at the moment.

_How selfish of you_.

"I am not perfect, Robin," Amon uttered regretfully and for a moment, there—for a moment, Robin's soul froze because she could have sworn from the twang in Amon's voice that _he_ was going to cry. "I'm far from perfect. But I know deep down that this is what was meant to happen. No matter how much I tried to ignore it, somehow I always knew that this was the path we would take."

Robin's head tilted up to look at his face in the darkness and her eyes beheld him gazing at her through sleep-slitted eyes in the gloom of the room. "We don't always want our destinies. I tried for years to avoid mine—the destiny of a Seed. It ended up happening anyway. And not a day goes by that I wish that it hadn't happened, but that's not going to change the reality at all, you know." Grey eyes blinked at her, a large hand slipping under the curtain of her hair over her neck. "We were born into this, Robin, and we can either wallow in self-pity—which I will admit I am often guilty of—or we can fight. And we can change. And we can adapt and we can win."

Her own eyes blinked back up at him, glossy and glazed from tears. "What if we can't?"

"Then we die trying. And we pave the way for someone else to continue the fight." His jaw set decisively. "While there is a breath left in my body, however, neither you nor Syunji will die. You two will outlive me at all costs. This I promise you."

"Don't promise that." Robin couldn't stop the nearly panic-stricken words from rushing out of her mouth. Deep down she knew that when Amon promised something, he meant it—and he wasn't about to change for anyone or anything. "I don't want that."

"Sometimes what we want isn't what needs to happen."

She frowned, tears stinging her eyes once again. "Why are you so bent on death?" she asked, fresh hurt and sorrow apparent on her face. Was it the death that surrounded them that was making him more morbid than usual, more fixated on the end of his own life than he'd ever been? "There's no reason for you to die. We can forget about all of this and go somewhere where the three of us can live, and just be—"

"Robin." Amon looked down at her sleepily, wistfully. A slight upward curve tugged at his lips, which only made him look sadder, sleepier, and older in the darkness. "No, we can't. I know you wish we could now, and I've wished the same thing many times before. It's not possible. SOLOMON will chase us to the ends of the Earth unless we do something. It was what we were born into—and you have a throne to assume, you know."

"I don't want it."

"It's yours." The curve in his lips remained. "Neither I nor Nagira can shoulder the entire burden for you. If I could, I would. I know you probably don't believe that but I would. Unfortunately it is yours and yours alone to carry. I will help you all that I can. Nagira will help you all that he can. But..."

"You did not even want me to do this in the first place." Her voice was accusatory and wounded, semi-betrayed. Part of her had been expecting him to be the typical Amon and agree with her, say that he was glad that she'd seen that he was right all along and then pack them off into the sunrise, off to oblivion in some distant land.

"But you did. And it is what I knew we had to do all along, and I'd been shirking away from it." His hand urged her back against him again via her neck and she complied without too much of an argument. "I couldn't come to grips with what I was, so I didn't want to come to grips with what you were and what you had to do. It is fairly obvious now."

Robin felt sick to her stomach; afraid and small. "No," she whispered, miserably.

Amon nodded, ducking his head a bit. The stubble on his chin rubbed against her forehead, rough and unfamiliar. "Yes. Robin. I will not let you back down from this because this—because it scares you," he said, sounding cut off and slightly disconnected. "It frightens me as well but we cannot run away from everything that frightens us. We must be strong. I am a monster. I can help you do anything."

Robin frowned, pulling away from him again, her forehead bumping his chin. She looked up at him, his face closer than it had been before. "You are not a monster."

He seemed to be laughing at her. "Whatever I am not and whatever I am, I can help you do anything. I am a bastard as well as a monster," he said lowly, looking at her, "but if you ask me for my help I will give it to you. You have it. Don't be afraid to ask for it. You are the one person in the world who doesn't have to think twice about asking for my help."

She was silent, stunned into muteness. When had she been granted special privileges above all else? And when had Amon become so resolute in this whole cause? Her brain spun, feeling helpless and small and confused and overwhelmed. "I can't understand how I became worthy of such a service," she said, skeptically.

Her warden uttered a faint 'heh' noise in the dark. "That's for you to figure out for yourself," he said, a token forlornly. "As much as I wish I could, I cannot tell you your self-worth. You must find that for yourself. When you find that, you will understand how you gained my service. Although I must admit that it's not as be-all and end-all as you seem to think it is."

The sound of a phone hanging up resounded from within the kitchen. Nagira had indeed ended the phone call, but it seemed as if he'd full well wanted Amon and Robin to know that he was ending it. Robin froze at the sound of footsteps emerging from the lit room and turned her head slightly downwards to gaze at the backlit figure of Nagira in the doorway to the kitchen, hands on his hips. Instead of the smart remark she would have figured he would have issued at having beheld them on the couch together, he simply said:

"Are you two going to go to sleep?" he asked conversationally. Amon turned one eye towards his brother, the other drifting closed.

"Perhaps. In a bit." He looked back to Robin, who looked away, blushing furiously. Nagira's silhouette nodded and shuffled back into the kitchen some.

"Well. I'll stay up for a bit and keep watch, and you two can get some sleep," he stated almost cheerfully. "Sleep well."

"Yeah." Amon replied, but his attention was still focused on Robin. "You _should_ sleep."

Robin nodded, looking at some spot near Amon's neck. "You as well. But I thought..." Here, her blonde brows furrowed, her lips curving downward. "...I thought you said we weren't to sleep together anymore?" she asked. Eyeing him critically as his eyes drifted closed, Robin waited with baited breath for an answer. One eye opened almost lazily and looked at her, the slight upward curve returning to his lips.

"You'll notice that it's my fault again, in this scenario." Robin's mouth opened to protest and Amon's slitted eye opened wider as if in reproach. "No talking back. Just sleep. I'm still your warden, you know."

Robin curled into him again, her face pressed into the warm firmness of his chest, willing herself to ignore the slight dry crusting of Gróa's blood on the fabric. She let a heaving breath out from between her lips, finally daring to free one hand from their locked position against her chest to slip it tentatively over Amon's side. "I thought that was what made this highly inappropriate," she countered, quietly.

"It is," Amon replied, quietly, into her hair. "But at this point, wouldn't you say that our whole lives were inappropriate, according to most people's standards?"

Robin said nothing in reply, and silently thrilled when the firm yet soft touch of Amon's chin against her forehead pressed against her skin. For one hopeful moment, she'd wondered if he was going to kiss her—and God, how her heart had hoped—but after a still, tense moment of stillness, Amon's body relaxed, his chin settling in more firmly against her forehead. He sighed, seeming to sink back into the couch. His body went semi-slack, and he stirred once more then not again.

"Go to sleep," he said, simply.

And she did.

Nagira looked at the two figures on the couch, somewhat saddened that he had to awaken them. It was dawn and from what he could tell it had ceased snowing hours ago. He wasn't entirely sure, but he was almost certain that he'd heard some sort of giant machinery outside during the night—a plow, more than likely. There was only one road to Reykjavík and he imagined that the Icelandic authorities probably didn't like to leave it inaccessible for very long.

His eyes burned. He was desperately sleepy, but he'd somehow figured out how to work the dead woman's coffee pot. He'd since drank half of it and then left the warmer on for Amon and Robin, should they want coffee upon awakening.

It was a shame to wake them, though. They looked so clichéd-ly peaceful lying there on the couch together, the narrowness of the old piece of furniture forcing them to become mostly one entity while they slept. In some ways it amazed him to see them there together, but in most ways it did not. Robin had been obviously despaired last night, and had needed solace that Nagira could not have offered even if he'd tried. Amon had been lost in his own little world after he'd stoically and methodically held the pillow over Gróa's face (she hadn't even struggled or fought, simply succumbed to the lack of oxygen, having been what she really wanted). Whether or not Amon would have ever admitted it, he had probably needed Robin's own brand of comfort just as much as she had needed his.

Nagira started moving towards the couch. His foot hit a creaky floorboard and Amon's eyes snapped open, wincing slightly in the morning light. Body shifting slightly, he looked up at his brother over the top of Robin's sleep-mussed hair, blinking rapidly to clear the sleep-daze from his eyes. Nagira nodded at him.

"Sorry," he murmured quietly. "It's time to get up. It's dawn and I think we can make it back to town, now. Gróa's ex-husband is going to meet us at the hotel."

Amon stirred minimally, tensing his muscles and stretching in place like a cat, the tenseness and movement causing Robin to murmur in her sleep and move against him.

"There's coffee in a pot in the kitchen," Nagira informed Amon, and noticed that Robin's eyes were starting to flicker open then, too. Amon's hand disentangled from Robin's hair and rubbed at one of his eyes. He forced them open wide; forcing alertness on himself. "I'd recommend getting washed up at the sink in the kitchen, too, buddy. You're still covered in blood. There's probably some dried blood on Robin now, too. I'm gonna go get washed up in the bathroom and then we should probably try to go outside and dig that damn car out of the snow."

Amon nodded, Robin seeming to hide against him as if she was embarrassed at having been discovered in her position; silent, as if Nagira wouldn't see her if he couldn't see her face or hear her voice. "We'll have to clear a path to the road as well, more than likely," he said, business-like, apparently not concerned for once at how Nagira was looking at him and Robin. "Even after we dig it out I don't think it's going to be able to make it through drifts without some help."

"You're right." Nagira scrutinized his brother. "Can you see?"

"Yeah," Amon groused, "somewhat. It feels like I've been swimming in a chlorinated pool with my eyes open for days. Everything's very...foggy."

Nagira nodded, and then gestured vaguely in the direction of the bathroom. "Well, I'm gonna go clean up. You two should get some coffee and get clean, and suit up. I'll meet you guys outside."

"Yeah."

Nagira turned and walked towards the hallway, shooting one last furtive glance back at the figures on the couch before entering the darkened pathway. Robin was turning around and sitting up, rubbing at her eyes quietly, and Amon was scooting over and sitting up on his end of the couch, looking off in another direction. Entering the hallway, Nagira couldn't keep the slight smirk off his face as he pushed open the blood-spattered bathroom door, despite the grimness of the entire situation.

_Ah, young love_.

It had taken them the better part of an hour to mostly uncover the Mercedes enough to where it could move on its own power out of the blanket of snow that had settled heavily upon it. Despite the frigid temperatures and the slight wind, Robin was sweaty and hot from exertion inside her winter clothing. They'd then set to work clearing a modest path out to the road—which had indeed, as Nagira had mentioned, been plowed during the night.

Nagira stopped to survey their progress in clearing a path, his hair more than a bit un-gelled and wild, and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He'd opted to give Robin and Amon the two shovels he found in the cellar, and had settled for an awkward rake of some kind for his own use—it meant that he had to work twice as hard to clear the same amount of snow that Robin and Amon could clear somewhat easily with a shovel. "I think," he said, squinting back at the Mercedes, "we can probably get it to move through this now."

Amon looked over at his somewhat disheveled brother, being somewhat disheveled himself. His hair was pulled back into the messy knot at the nape of his neck to keep it out of his face while he worked, his shadow turned stubble was threatening to become passable facial hair at any time, and his forehead glistened with sweat. "There's still too much snow on the ground."

"We'd be digging for another hour to get this path clear enough to drive that sucker through without a problem," the lawyer said with a shrug, tossing his rake off to the side, where it alit upon a giant snow pile. "I'm fucking beat. I've got an idea."

Amon eyed him warily. "What?"

Robin's hands opened in shock when Nagira came to her through the still moderately deep snow and took the shovel out of them, tossing it off by his rake. "Robin's going to steer and we're going to push."

"That is _not_ going to work." Amon frowned severely. "She can't control a vehicle on ice and we can't really push a vehicle on ice either."

"Quit'cher bitchin'," Nagira said good-naturedly. Robin moved along in mute compliance as he steered her back up the snow path towards the SUV. "Here's the deal. I'm going to turn the car on and put it in neutral and you're just going to steer, okay? Us big, burly men are going to push it from the front and see if we can't just get it out to the road that way."

From forty feet behind them, Amon threw his own shovel off to the side. "This isn't going to work," he called out in irritation. Nagira muttered something under his breath that Robin didn't fully catch, and stepped aside as he opened the door to the Mercedes. "If we can't push it any further," Nagira went on, apparently ignoring the man in black in the distance, "all you have to do is shift," here he indicated the shift knob in the center console, "from neutral to reverse and give it a little bit of gas. A _little_ bit, Robin, not a lot. The gas pedal is the right one. Left is the brake. Keep your window down so we can holler back and forth, okay?"

Robin wasn't sure how capable she was going to be of handling the vehicle, but she remembered Amon's words echoing in her head—she couldn't shirk away from everything just because she was afraid of it. And she desperately, desperately wanted to escape the frozen wasteland of death. "Okay." She climbed up into the driver's seat and took the proffered keys. Nagira indicated the ignition key and she stuck it awkwardly into the ignition slot. Turning it, the SUV's engine came to life a bit shudderingly.

Amon's figure appeared in the rear view mirror, coming up along side the vehicle, stalking through the thick snow. "Let it warm up for a moment. The engine will just stall if you don't let it warm up—it's too cold out here. While Robin sat in the seat with the door open and the SUV running, Amon and Nagira grumbled to each other and worked at kicking snow out from around the tires of the car.

After a few minutes Nagira came around and shut Robin's door, and she located the button on the door console to roll her window down. Amon came up and stood beside his brother, looking into the interior of the vehicle at Robin's nervous little form sitting in the driver's seat. "Put your foot on the brake pedal and shift it into neutral," Nagira instructed. Looking down to ascertain that she was putting her foot in the right place, Robin did as she was told. A panicked look came over her face when the vehicle began to roll backwards slightly, and her knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. Her foot jammed on the brake pedal fiercely, eyes wide.

Nagira laughed, a welcome sound that had been absent for the last day. "Don't worry, Robin, you're not going anywhere. The ground is icy and you're on an incline. It's going to slide backwards when it's in neutral."

The brothers crossed around to the front of the vehicle, Amon grumbling to Nagira who replied back dismissively. Robin looked over the steering wheel at them through the windshield as they braced themselves the best they could in the snow and put their hands on the SUV's hood. "Alright, let off the brake," Nagira called to Robin and she did so slowly. She was rolling backwards again and Nagira and Amon were slipping about slightly as they pushed, but the car was moving backwards through the snow. She could feel the bumps as the wheels rolled over particularly thick areas of snow.

"Steer, Robin," Amon called from the front of the vehicle, looking up at her. "Cut the wheel. It's going to hit that big embankment."

Robin blinked and then looked behind her in confusion and saw that indeed the rear end of the Mercedes was about to hit the wall of snow they'd shoveled to the side in their efforts to clear a path. She began to turn the wheel to the left and panicked vaguely when the car slid, unresponsive, heading directly for the embankment. She froze.

"Other way, Robin!" Amon called. "Turn it the other way!"

Fully panicked then, Robin grabbed the wheel and began to crank frantically in the other direction. The car slid some more and thankfully went in the other direction, but not before it slid about a foot faster than any of them had anticipated.

The result was Nagira's sudden disappearance from the front of the Mercedes. Robin, still nervous and panicked, jammed on the brakes suddenly and the vehicle slid for a few inches before coming to a stop. Amon looked down to the side of him in what could only be described as mute bewilderment. For a moment Robin's mind raced—had she _run him over_? There was no possible way—

And then Amon burst into laughter, something Robin had never really heard, something she never would have imagined under the circumstances. Amon's impeccable mask of a face crinkled with the effort of it, lines around his eyes and mouth that were not normally present appearing. His teeth were white and perfect—no, Robin's brain took it back, upon closer observation—his lower teeth appeared to be a bit crooked, but just slightly. Was that a dimple she saw?

"I _told_ you that this wasn't going to work," he said, in between booming peals of laughter. Looking to her side, Robin shifted the knob into the park position, and opened her door and clambered out. Rounding the hood carefully on the slick ground, she was greeted with the sight of Nagira on the ground flat on his stomach, rubbing his forehead. Amon was still laughing.

"Laugh it up, hippie," the man on the ground scowled, pushing himself up slowly and unsteadily. "Christ...who would've thought that bumpers were as sturdy as they looked?" He rubbed at his forehead in amazement, looking back at his hand as if he expected to see blood. "_Fuck_ that hurt."

Amon was grinning, displaying his slightly crooked lower teeth. Robin wondered how they had gotten that way. Grinning thusly lent a strange slant to his eyes that was not normally apparent, and that was discernable as neither Japanese nor European. It simply looked _foreign_ and cunning. "Good thing your head is both harder than a rock and completely empty."

Reaching out suddenly, Nagira gave his brother a slight shove, which did nothing to cease his chuckling—even if it did cause him to slip about a bit on the slick, snowy ground. "Are you okay?" Robin asked, concerned. Nagira had obviously slipped on the ice and fallen, hitting his head in the process.

He nodded. "I'll be fine as soon as I stop seeing stars. Man."

Amon was slowly but surely bringing himself back under control, his face settling back into the emotionless mask in measures. The smile lines around his eyes and mouth faded back into smoothness and his mouth eventually retook its characteristic downward turn. His eyes, however, still smiled somehow. He looked to Robin. "Ready to steer again?" he asked of her.

Back in the hotel, he took no chances. Almost immediately he packed up all of his belongings into his bag, not even bothering to change out of his dirty and blood-encrusted clothing. Only after he'd gathered all of his belongings to his satisfaction did he enter the bathroom with a fresh set of clothing and set about showering.

He looked in the mirror at his face. Nagira was right. He did look like a hippie. A tired, slightly gaunt, slightly dangerous hippie. For some reason, his usual fanaticism about staying mostly clean-shaven had packed its own bags and headed off on vacation.

Amon emerged from the bathroom clean, damp-haired, fully dressed, but still sporting a shadow that appeared determined to turn into a beard. He found Robin sitting on the edge of her bed with a plate of food in her hand, eating ravenously and staring occasionally and half-heartedly at the TV. She'd found a station that was in Icelandic but had English subtitles. A discarded cloth napkin was lying crumpled near her skirt-clad knee with some kind of yellow-white sauce on it. It looked like Hollandaise sauce.

He watched her for a moment, his probably ruined dirty clothes in his hand, and then cleared his throat. She looked back at him through a curtain of hair that was slightly limp and greasy from that morning's nervous exertion and lack of washing—it had been two days or so since she'd washed it, hadn't it? Her eyes were wide and startled and her mouth was in the middle of chewing something or another. She looked so perfectly candid, alive—typical of her.

"Where's Nagira?" he asked of her, tucking his dirty clothes into his bag.

"He's in the shower too," she replied after swallowing whatever she'd been eating. She turned back to her plate and scooped up another big bite of something, chewing.

"You should take a shower now, too." Amon's eyes wandered to the TV—it was international news. The language boggled his mind.

"You should eat," she countered around a mouth of food. She turned to look back at him over her shoulder almost—it seemed to his demented brain, anyway—slyly, knowingly, through her curtain of hair. "You're losing weight."

He frowned. "You eat enough for the both of us," he countered right back. "And I am not losing weight." Even though he was, he didn't feel compelled to admit it. "You're dirty. I think a bath would do you good."

"I will," Robin replied, turning her attention back to the TV. "Why didn't you shave?" she asked suddenly while groping blindly for her napkin.

For that, Amon didn't have a good reply. "I'm not sure."

"If I take a bath, will you eat?" she asked, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. An ultimatum. He mirrored her look, arching a superior eyebrow right back at her.

"I'll think about it," he replied mysteriously. "But that means you should go take a bath. You wouldn't want me to waste away into nothing, would you?"

Robin leveled a look at him that seemed to be several things at once via her eyes—amusement, hurt, irritation—and then set her plate on the edge of her bed with a sigh, dropping the silverware onto the uneaten remnants of her food. Still chewing a bite with relative vigor, she moved purposefully into the bathroom and closed the door resolutely behind her.

"Are you eating yet?" she called from behind the door. Amon rubbed at one of his eyes, a very, very faint smirk appearing on his lips. He turned and headed for Nagira's room to where his laptop still sat, connected. Before eating, he had some research to do.

He and his brother were sitting down eating when Robin finally snuck into the room a little over an hour later, skin still pink and warm-looking from her bath. In an effort to appear as if he'd eaten more than he actually had and appease Robin, he reached over immediately and shoveled a large bite of sole fillet into his mouth, chewing. He'd mostly picked at the food, instead immersed in the computer. Nagira had been eating with his usual slowness, smoking and staring and chatting throughout the meal.

As envisioned, Robin came over and eyeballed Amon's plate expectantly. "You've eaten less than I did," she said disapprovingly, and then went away shufflingly, flopping on Nagira's unmade bed. Her hand groped blindly for the remote for the TV and flipped it on. A second later, almost as an afterthought, she rolled over and yanked open the bedside table drawer, pulling out the perfunctory copy of the Bible. Flipping through it idly she settled on a page and started to read.

Amon looked at her pointedly, even though he knew she could not see him from behind the book, and took another large bite even though his food was mostly cold by then and somewhat unappetizing. What did it matter how much he'd eaten, anyway? He could feel his brother's lazy glance upon him, amused and almost taunting. He ignored it.

"I've been trying to locate information about Gróa's ex-husband," he said after he'd swallowed a bite of food. "I've been having difficulty doing so."

Robin turned a dead-skin thin page of the Bible, apparently unconcerned. "Ah."

Nagira looked back to Robin with detached interest and then turned back to his own food. Amon blinked and then looked over to her once more, taking another forkful of food into his mouth even though his stomach protested. "Yeah," he said, after swallowing the bite. "He seems to be a rather difficult character to find information on."

"Hmm." Robin's fingers were slipping under the next page, getting ready to turn it. Amon blinked.

"Do you care? Or have you resigned to give up?" he asked suddenly, bluntly. He recalled her words from the prior evening and worried that she may have just decided that it would have been easier to let him do all the work from there on out. She lowered the Bible and looked at him, an evenly smoldering glance that seemed heated in its indifference.

"I'm not giving up," Robin replied, steel under her voice. Obviously his words to her the night before had hit somewhere deep within, put the fire back into her fight, the mettle back into her conviction. "Which one of us is uncaring and resigned?" she asked quietly, her voice innocent but evil all at the same time. "You haven't been taking care of yourself."

A snicker came from next to Amon very quietly; Nagira was amused by the exchange.

"Regardless," Amon said coolly, determined not to let his ward's sudden superior attitude get to him, "you are showing no interest in the events it seems."

Silence reigned, punctuated by the sounds of Icelandic TV echoing through the room. Amon's fork clinked against his plate as he stabbed the remaining bit of the sole fillet, sticking it into his mouth. Nagira lit a cigarette.

"I'm interested," she said, diminutive, from behind the Good Book. "I am, however, currently helpless. There's nothing we can do right now. I'm taking advantage of it."

Amon was silent. Nagira was smirking. And Robin read the Bible. It was unspokenly obvious which one of them had won. And so the next thirty minutes wore on in desolate silence, the silence of Robin immersing herself in other things, the silence of Nagira wanting to say something so badly but biting his tongue, and the silence of Amon clearing his plate, somewhat disgruntled that he felt like he had something to prove to someone.

And he was fairly certain of who that someone was, but wasn't entirely willing to admit it. When he finished his plate—nothing left, even all the sauce scraped off by use of awkward fork—he set it down on the table next to him with a decisive _clink_ of metal on glass and looked to his laptop screen firmly. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Robin peer over the top of her beloved Bible at his plate in an approving matter then go back to reading her book.

"His name's Trygve," Nagira said to Amon after he'd finished his own plate mostly. He shrugged. "If you'd wanted to know that much about him you could have asked. Gróa's sister's name is Sigrún, and their child's name is Eirikur." Nagira looked immensely pleased with himself, almost glowing. "I know where they've been living and everything. I only talked with Trygve for, you know, two hours or so the other night. You could have asked me."

A frown issued forth from Amon as if he could just feel both of the bodies in the room exuding secret pleasure at having one-upped him, right after each other. Robin said nothing, only turned the pages of her Bible. Nagira looked at his brother inquisitively, waiting to see what he would do. Merely nodding, the ex-Hunter leaned back in his chair some, his stomach feeling vaguely ill and protesting at the sudden abundance of food within it. "I see."

The girl on the bed suddenly grew tired of the Bible it seemed and laid it aside. She blinked tiredly at the television set, her green eyes glazed and dim, wet hair in semi-disarray due to the pillow she laid upon. Robin folded her hands on her chest, under her small breasts and inhaled deeply, staring at the television for a moment as if she was seeing right through it. Her brain was working, something was chewing at her mind; Amon could tell.

And belatedly he wondered why she refused to wear a bra. It was distracting.

Years had passed, in her absence from the land of her birth. She'd not returned mostly out of shame and fear, unfamiliarity and awkwardness. Her homeland was a womb to her, enveloping, welcoming—but the feelings and the memories associated with it were not. The land welcomed her with open arms but the souls of her family and the memories contained there within sneered at her coming.

It was late. It was between night and dawn and she was marching down the richly-carpeted hallway of the hotel, her short legs stalking like they meant business, her sleeping child bouncing in her arms, a comforting weight; just as he had been when he had been within her own womb, bouncing and kicking as she had walked.

Her sister had been the one whose name had meant _to produce; fertile_. Her name was merely the name of a Valkyrie from Norse legend, a name that literally meant _secret victory._ And what a secret victory that had been—the child that should have been her older sister's bouncing sleepily in her own small arms.

Even as she walked she felt the swelling pride of a new life within her—barely a few weeks along, another child that would have been her sister's—her dead sister's. Already her body began to feel the warm and maternal protectiveness of pregnancy, the heavy, pleasant drowsiness of the filling out of the curves, the breasts, the hips, stomach.

She was marching, child in arms, towards the room of the girl who would someday bear the child—children—who would be the worthy progenitors of their race, the girl who would become the woman who would rule them and guide them and pick those around her who would help her to govern her society. In the growing shadow of SOLOMON's power, their collective—the woman with the child, her husband's, her children's, her fellows'—futures hinged on the survival, the decisions, and the education of this strange girl that she had never met.

Sigrún Guðmundsdóttir moved on authoritatively, confidently, nervously, towards room one hundred and thirty three. There she would find the man who was the brother of the one who guarded the Eve. The man who had spoken with her husband—her husband, who was also her ex-brother-in-law. The man was the one that had informed Trygve that the guardian had complied with her sister's dying wishes and speeded her along to Valhalla, to the Gods.

Sigrún couldn't feel bitterness or anger towards the guardian. He was everything they could have wanted in a guardian for the Eve, obviously not much given to his own moral indignations to things. He was not afraid to do what needed to be done.

And she, the Eve, she was a mystery yet to be discovered. She was their hope and their dreams. And she needed to be rescued and taken away from this place. Trygve had originally been set to go to Iceland to retrieve the entourage, but had been waylaid by business affairs. Sigrún and her child (children) had come instead.

Sigrún closed her eyes, pressing Eirikur's sleeping forehead against her neck delicately, savouring the intimate press of her child's flesh. The eve—Robin Lucretia Sena, her given name—needed to be pried from the womb of Iceland because its spirits and gods had rejected her just the way that they had rejected Sigrún—the same spirits and gods that were welcoming Gróa into their halls with open arms, with full goblets and plates.

A knock at the door immediately jolted Amon's slightly fuzzy senses into full alarm. He was up and reeling for the door in _Nagira's_ room before he even knew it, somewhat unaware that his senses had allowed themselves to stretch that far in his semi-nightly watch over Robin. She slept on quietly in her bed, a maize-haired lump beneath her blankets. He moved through the rooms' adjoining doors silently and found his brother turning on the bedside light, squinting in curiosity.

"Someone's at the door," Nagira hissed, reaching into his bedside table for the gun that Amon had supplied him with. Amon's trusty fellow, the .440 Desert Eagle was already in his hands, ready to be fired regardless of the proximity to others, if need be. Tensed, he paused for a moment looking back at Nagira with warning in his eyes before cracking open the door to the hotel room.

The sight of what he saw in front of his grey eyes made his guard drop a notch.

A small, very blonde woman, fairer in skin and hair than any he had ever seen, stood in front of him with a chubby, cherubic sleeping infant in her arms. The weight and importance of her gaze caused him to open the door further of his own accord without even knowing why despite the fact that his senses were screaming in protest. Behind him Nagira waited anxiously, poised and ready to kill.

"You are Amon Novotne," she said, lowly, ominously, "and I am Sigrún Guðmundsdóttir. This is my child, Eirikur Einarsson, born to me of the man named Trygve Einarsson—my former brother-in-law, the ex-husband of my deceased sister, Gróa Guðmundsdóttir. I have been sent by my husband to receive you and ensure you safe passage to Portugal at all costs."

Amon's hand let the door fall completely open, completely ensnared and caught unaware by the woman's frank, business-like air. His hand gripped his gun uselessly and Nagira hovered in the distance behind him, gawking at the ethereally fair woman in front of them and the sleeping babe in her arms. He blinked, feeling severely ill-equipped and underdressed in a pair of slacks, without shirt.

"I killed your sister, Gróa Guðmundsdóttir," Amon uttered without thought. "I am the man who killed your sister."

Sigrún smiled sadly at him, displaying small and even teeth. "I am the woman who killed my sister in the first place—and you are not the man who killed her. You are the man who granted her passage to the afterworld, and for that you can never be blamed or hated. The afterlife is a coveted thing." She stepped into the room without asking, both men gazing at her in amazement—she was even _shorter_ than her sister had been, and Gróa had by no means been an exceedingly tall woman. She had been even shorter than _Robin_, and that was saying a lot. "You are Syunji Nagira, the man who risks his own life and well-being to save witches. Well met."

"Cute kid," Nagira replied, in semi-shock himself. Everything was happening so quickly and the woman simply seemed to be taking _charge_ of the situation. Something about her radiated power—and Amon, watching his brother and the woman, wasn't sure if it was the sense of knowledge and pervading _sadness_ that issued forth from her or the invisible ripples of her power in the air that he felt. Something within him that was primitive and base cowered at her presence in the room—it was his Craft, small and fledgling, bowing down before the Craft of someone who was unfamiliar, assertive, and very powerful.

Sigrún inclined her head to Nagira with an almost coquettish air, and then she extended Eirikur's peaceful, sleeping form towards Nagira. "You may hold him while I go and awaken the Eve."

Nagira wordlessly took the child from his mother's outstretched arms, looking decidedly awkward when the baby mewled and squirmed in his arms at the sudden change of position. Sigrún, seemingly unconcerned, strode towards the open door that conjoined the two rooms and went through it. Amon was suddenly hot on her heels, his primitive fear overridden by the instinct to protect Robin at all costs.

The Icelandic woman's small hand flicked on the light, and they both stopped in the doorway to behold Robin sitting up in the bed, looking at the doorway evenly, if not a bit sleepily. She rubbed at one of her eyes and sat up, holding her blankets to her slip-clad form, appearing like a child awakening from a nap.

"I felt someone coming," Robin said almost apologetically. "In my dreams—I could hear you thinking. I could hear your...worries, as you came down the hall."

"My hopes?" Sigrún asked hopefully.

Robin appeared uncomfortable. "...I suppose those, as well."

"What of my husband?" Sigrún asked pleadingly, eagerly; sounding like a little girl begging her wise grandmother to tell her a story. Gone was the authoritive air that she'd worn in Nagira's room.

Robin once again squirmed, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Her green eyes darted to Amon's grey—which watched her intently—and then to some spot in front of her, unfocussed. "You...worried about Gróa. You worried about your husband. And...in the dream, there was another voice speaking to me..._two_ of them, very small."

Sigrún was wordlessly excited.

"...Children, it seemed," Robin murmured confusedly.

Amon looked to the small woman in front of him, his own brow furrowed. "There is only one child with you, no?"

Sigrún turned to him, her face glowing. "Only one that is apparent," she said proudly. "The other one grows within me and it knows its mistress—I feel it within me. She truly _is_ the Eve."

Amon grew defensive. "I never had a doubt in my mind."

Robin blinked, clearing her throat, drawing attention in the room back to her. Nagira had entered then, a stirring baby in his arms gurgling and reaching for its mother. "It was just a dream."

Sigrún smiled widely, gazing at Robin. "Then what dreams you have!"

The ring on Sigrún's finger glistened hugely and importantly in the light, sparkling and twinkling. She appeared unconcerned as to its size, unaware that it was even there. Amon had definitely noticed it and he knew that Nagira had as well—a whispered comment into his ear as Robin dressed in the bathroom and Sigrún busied herself with Eirikur—_look at that rock_.

And as she sat next to him gesturing and waving her hands as she spoke, Amon couldn't help but notice the sheer size of the wedding ring on the dead woman's sister next to him. The child Eirikur busied himself with latching onto locks of his mother's long, cornsilk blonde hair. Giggling at Amon, displaying a mouth already boasting a few tiny pearls of teeth, Eirikur placed the end of a plait of his mother's hair into his mouth and chewed.

Unused to dealing with children and not really certain what to do, Amon's gaze moved down to Sigrún's still-flat belly. Somewhere in there a child grew, and somehow that child had _spoken_ to Robin. Amon looked back to Sigrún's face, animated in talking to Nagira. There was a slight resemblance to Gróa but it was only slight. Sigrún looked younger, healthier, happier—and undeniably more beautiful. There was something about her that Gróa had lacked. Gróa had seemed more worn and wearied; more like a slightly embittered mother figure than her younger sister. She was plainer and less mystifying, and Amon had the distinct feeling that she might have been a tad more practical than her younger sister, less given to the whims of destiny.

It made him feel like an immense asshole but Amon could see why a man would possibly leave Gróa for Sigrún. There was just something about her that won you to her side immediately.

It was the same something that Robin possessed as well. It had taken him a while to realize what a truly rare gift that power was, the power to make people love you. It worked almost infallibly, this he had belatedly realized as well. After all, it had worked on him in no time, before he was even conscious of the fact that it had. And then even after he had realized that Robin had somehow worked her magic on him, he spent most of his time and energy to combating it.

"...absolutely useless," Sigrún was saying as Amon's mind floated back into the conversation, and for a split second his defenses bristled as he instinctually felt that she had been talking about _him_ fighting Robin's power over him. "Trygve has realized this. And that's why he's been slowly but surely forming alliances, banding us together. We cannot do anything alone, this is certain."

Nagira nodded sagely, looking at the woman and her child inquisitively. "So then your interests in little Robin and my brother are purely for strategy reasons?"

Sigrún looked taken aback. "No," she said slowly. "...I can't say that their combined power isn't a large reason of why we're glad you found us, but their survival is important as well. As a group, they will be better protected and not live in quite as much danger."

Amon's mind snapped fully to and realized that his fate was being talked about as if he wasn't even in the room, or as if he was as helpless as the child in Sigrún's arms. "Don't tell me there's no hope at all," he muttered under his breath, causing the two other adults' heads to jerk towards him. "Together we stand, divided we fall. Pink Floyd lyrics," he said to Sigrún's questioning look. "I'll decide for myself as to when and how my power will be used. And I'm sure Robin will do the same—and even if she doesn't, or she can't, I will _not_ allow her to be used as some sort of pawn."

Nagira nodded. "I second that."

"We wouldn't dream of such a thing," Sigrún said while gently disentangling Eirikur's little fists from her long hair, wincing minutely. "Please believe that. Amon and Robin combined could probably do away with most of us if they truly pleased. After all, they've successfully eliminated everything that SOLOMON's thrown at them." She smirked evilly. "One wonders how many more little cronies they've prepared to throw at you, or if they're starting to scrape the bottom of the bucket?"

"Hardly." Robin appeared in the doorway to the bathroom, looking somehow clean and composed. On closer inspection Amon noticed that she had apparently scrubbed her face—either that or she had been crying—it appeared red and pristine, almost raw. Walking over to where they sat, her long reddish-brown skirt swished around her boots and she stopped next to Amon, placing her hands on her tiny hips. Her simple form fitting black t-shirt seemed to be elegant and commanding. Maybe it was just because she was standing above him. "I don't think SOLOMON's running low. I don't think anyone's even sure how many operatives they _really_ have."

Amon nodded, finding himself settling into the position of backing up Robin's statements a lot easier than he would have originally figured it to be. Maybe _that_ was because he knew that she was the one they really wanted, that _she_ was the one that was really important—he was powerful, but he was nowhere _near_ as powerful as she was. And unlike her he did not have the power to bear more little witches just as powerful as himself. "To get a good idea, I would start by just assuming that anyone under the influence of the Church is a SOLOMON operative. After all, whenever SOLOMON needs more manpower, that's where they turn. They take whatever and whoever they want out of the churches and the abbeys, the monasteries and the convents, the orphanages...not to mention the collection plates, as well." He frowned, rubbing at his chin, fingers sliding over the sandpaper facial hair there. "One also cannot forget to take into account the loose cannon factors—people who simply seek SOLOMON out because they want to and people that SOLOMON simply more or less yanks out of life."

Nagira made a dull chuckling noise. "People like you?"

"People like me." Amon's frown was concealed behind his hand and Robin squirmed next to him faintly. It was almost as if she sensed his discomfort at Nagira making such a deliberately personal statement about him in front of someone they didn't know.

The young witch cleared her throat timidly yet purposefully. "Amon's right. They aren't going to run out of people to send after us. And..."

"...what about in-fighting?" Nagira brought up, leaning forward in his chair. "I've been around the witch-world long enough to know that you guys can be downright vicious when it comes to power struggles." He watched Sigrún's almost embarrassed look and deduced that he had hit a soft spot. "Maybe these two were right to stay _ronin_ all this time—it seems that whenever you guys start forming large groups the first thing you do is start fighting each other, not SOLOMON."

Amon nodded silently in agreement to his brother's statement. He'd Hunted witches for long enough to know that Nagira was right; sometimes, cruelly enough, it was even the best way to Hunt them. Sometimes it had been much easier to just step back and let them kill each other off, or trick them into thinking that each other was the enemy via disinformation and a few strategic killings. Then all one had to do was sit back and watch the bullets, Crafts, and general nastiness fly, and the body count rise.

Sigrún nodded sadly, shifting Eirikur in her lap. The baby made various jabbering noises and reached determinedly for Robin. His mother suddenly and unceremoniously handed the baby to Robin who accepted him with bewilderment, shifting the heavy baby weight in her arms. "It's true that witches often spend more time squabbling amongst each other for power rather than fighting the true enemy," she admitted. "But we are changing that. That isn't to say that there aren't those who are our enemies, those who wish to do us harm. But we are being as diplomatic as possible—Trygve realizes that we have nothing to gain by fighting amongst ourselves and everything to lose." She looked pensive, holding back words as she thought about them. "This isn't to say that occasionally we must fight to defend ourselves. When we are attacked, we must defend ourselves. But we never intentionally initiate conflict with others. That's not our goal."

Amon's hand moved away from his mouth and he looked over at their new Icelandic friend with a serious, discerning look. "What _is_ your goal, then?" Robin, who had been up until that point engrossed with walking back and forth jouncing Eirikur in her thin arms and coaxing baby-grins out of him, turned to the conversation with interest in her green eyes. Amon forced himself not to let his eyes wander to the strange and somehow oddly appealing sight of Robin with a baby in her arms and instead riveted his eyes to Sigrún's pale blue ones. She blinked back at him and then smiled enigmatically, her child cooing in the background. Nagira lit a cigarette.

"I suppose you'll find out, won't you?" she said with a lilt in her voice.


	15. Bachelorette

"It's a long journey ahead of us, buddy," his brother murmured, leaning in close and speaking in the humans-on-an-airplane voice. "Why don't you try to catch forty winks?"

Amon's eyes gazed blankly out the window despite the fact that it was evening and he could see nothing. Far, far below them was the ocean. The sound of jet airliner engines was a dull rumbling, plugged-ear noise in the back of his mind, and his sinuses protested fiercely.

"I can't sleep," he replied simply, not looking at Nagira. The blackness of the world outside seemed so damned _fascinating_ somehow.

Nagira seemed to consider something for a moment and then reached under the seat in front of them, rummaging through a small carry-on bag. Amon's hearing was piqued even if his eyes weren't; they stared out the window as before. The sound of pills rattling in a bottle caught his hearing enough however, to turn his eyes. "What the hell are those?" he asked as Nagira dumped a small white pill out into his palm. Robin looked over from the aisle seat, her green eyes curious.

"Valium," the lawyer answered with a grin. "No questions asked. Here," he said, and handed the tiny pill to Amon. "Guaranteed to fix all anti-sleep problems, especially when coupled with a beer."

Amon frowned at the tiny white pill between his massive-by-comparison thumb and forefinger. "I don't need to take pills to sleep."

"If you didn't," Nagira countered, "you'd be asleep by now."

Robin looked over from Nagira's other side once more, pen stuck between her lips thoughtfully. "What's a seven letter word for 'guffaw'?" she asked of Nagira. Her crossword puzzle was obviously getting the better of her.

Amon contemplated the pill while his brother made theatrical noises of deep thought. "Did you try 'snicker'?" he asked helpfully. Robin shook her head, stumped.

"It doesn't work," she replied.

Nagira shrugged. "Maybe it does and something else is wrong, somewhere."

The idea that perhaps she'd goofed earlier in the puzzle seemed to quietly exasperate Robin and she sagged visibly. "I really dislike these things," she murmured, looking at the puzzle dully. "I'm fairly certain that all of my other answers are correct. But then again, you might be right..."

For some strange reason the crossword puzzle discussion was tugging at the edges of Amon's already fraying nerves. Perhaps it bothered him because Nagira and Robin could be so concerned about something as trivial as a crossword puzzle and then be so nonchalant when making decisions about things like packing up all of their belongings and taking off with yet _another_ person they barely knew; Sigrún. He popped the pill into his mouth and swiped Nagira's small rum and coke from his inattentive hand, draining the plastic cup and using it to wash down the pill. He placed the empty cup back in Nagira's hand and pointedly ignored the befuddled look that Robin was shooting him, and the amused look that Nagira was directing at him.

In the seat across the aisle, Sigrún quietly tried to shush Eirikur to sleep.

Amon fell asleep listening to the whine of jet engines and the faint babble of Sigrún singing in Icelandic, and the closer sounds of Nagira and Robin resolving to work together and defeat the crossword puzzle.

..........

He had mistakenly been under the impression that they were _staying_ in Portugal once they got there. That wasn't entirely sure, however; his mind was still exceedingly fuzzy and his movements slowed from the combination of Valium and alcohol on the plane. Dry-mouthedly and drowsily he made it through half of a short flight from Lisbon International Airport to a much, much smaller airport—Portimão Airport—before falling asleep yet again. The fact that he'd been able to sleep at all on the flight amazed him and was a tell-tale sign that there was still quite a bit of functioning drug left in his system; the plane had been very small and the flight hadn't exactly been the smoothest. The rough nature of the flight had greatly upset Eirikur, who'd spent most of the flight giving short, choking wails despite Robin and Sigrún's best female efforts to quiet the squalling baby.

Amon had slept through most all of it.

In Portimão they boarded a train set on a north-easternly path towards Spain. Amon's muddled mind was trying to make sense of why they'd flown from Lisbon all the way down to close enough to the Azores to _be_ the Azores, for all he cared. He supposed there was a reason for it, however, and resigned himself to it. Once on the train, however, he managed sleepy, semi-confused protests at their rooming arrangements for the apparent _two-day_ train trip. Last time he'd been in Europe, he seemed to remember the trains being a lot faster. Sigrún had informed him that the trip was so long due to the fact that they were kind of riding the train around a bit for a while to confuse anyone who might have followed them.

"That still doesn't explain the rooming situations," Amon said, chagrined. "I won't allow it."

He and Nagira were originally set to room together, while Robin, Sigrún, and Eirikur were to be in another—mother and child in one bunk, presumably. Sigrún may have been Gróa's sister, but it still didn't mean that Amon was ready to trust her _that_ much yet. He hadn't kept Robin alive all that time just to have her killed in her sleep, right under his nose. Nagira was watching the exchange with amusement.

"Well, what do you propose, then?" Sigrún asked, clearly trying to be civil about the whole affair and Amon's sudden insistence on modifications of the plan. "That Robin rooms with your brother and you? I'd think that there'd hardly be enough room," she remarked.

"No," Amon said, even though he wasn't really sure where he was going with his argument or even what a suitable solution would be, "I'm not saying that."

"Well, then, what?" Sigrún asked, clearly at a loss but clearly (and subtly) amused by Amon's prudishness. "Should we allow her to have her own room?"

Amon's brow furrowed in thought—while under any other circumstances that would have been the logical solution, he liked the idea of Robin alone in a room even less than he liked the idea of her rooming with an almost perfect stranger. "No. That's..."

Nagira huffed and stepped forward, leaving a typically reticent (and now somewhat embarrassed that everyone was talking about her like she didn't exist) Robin a step behind him. "Okay, look. How about this, buddy—_I'll_ room with Sigrún, if that's alright with her, and you and Robin can room together. Although," Nagira said, an underlying, indecipherable emotion in his voice, "I'm not sure why you're so concerned about it. It's only for two days, and Robin has already proved to us on several occasions that she's more than capable of defending herself if need be."

Silence reigned for a moment. "That's fine with me," Sigrún facilitated politely, nodding. "I trust you and you're right—it is only for two days. Train-travel is never particularly comfortable or easy. I knew that going into this. I only regret that Trygve couldn't come instead...it certainly would have made rooming arrangements simpler, yes? Then you would have been able to room with another male instead of a female and her child."

Nagira shrugged. "Don't bother me none. I'm a gentleman." He grinned.

Nagira and the Icelander with the child headed off down the hallway, leaving Robin and Amon to stand there in the hallway and glance at each other; one still somewhat embarrassed, the other tired and too embarrassed to let the embarrassment show. Instead, he glanced down at his ticket stub and sighed, hefting his bag. "Let's find our room," he said, and Robin nodded wordlessly, following.

.............

The prospect of the train moving through Italy elated and terrified her. It was her home and she thought it the most beautiful place in the world—but it was also the center of everyone and anyone who wanted her dead. And not just dead, but _eradicated_.

Robin clenched her pillow tighter and stared out the train's window at the scenery that flew past. Below her on the bunk, Amon read. They said nothing to each other. He'd been unusually reticent since yesterday. As per usual, it worried Robin immensely that Amon wasn't speaking to her, but she was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to try to goad him into speaking.

She felt like Alice; curious and getting curiouser. She was falling further down the rabbit hole and she was pulling Amon and Nagira with her.

Over dinner in one of the dinner cars last night, Sigrún had taken the time, while feeding soft, cooked baby carrots to Eirikur, to explain to them (quietly) in greater detail most of the situation.

Being the Eve of Witches was going to be a lot, lot more difficult than she'd originally imagined. Part of her still wished that Amon had complied with her wishes that night on the couch in Gróa's house and packed them off to somewhere far away to live in anonymity forever.

Before taking on SOLOMON could even be _considered_, Robin needed to establish herself in the Witch world. That had been the downside of Amon's paranoia, his unwillingness to associate with others (and Robin wondered if he was being so quiet because he felt guilty about all of it)—she and Amon were like fairy tale characters in Witch society. Some believed they lived, some didn't. Some thought the idea of an "Eve" was perfectly ridiculous—especially when that "Eve" was an awkward fifteen-year-old girl. Some resented the fact that they'd been a part of SOLOMON for so long. Some believed her to be some sort of second coming. Some—most—believed that even if indeed Robin and Amon had existed, they'd probably long since been killed by SOLOMON.

"Here's the general consensus," Sigrún had said, scooping mooshy bits of chewed carrot off her son's chin. "You're about half and half supported, I think. There are those like Trygve and our Coven who believe whole heartedly in you and your powers. There are some—and you'll meet them—who are either fearful of or scoffing at a fifteen year old girl taking their power from them. There are those who are certain you have to be dead. And finally, there are those who _might_ believe in your powers, but would probably frown upon certain aspects of this whole situation."

Robin had frowned slightly, looking over to Nagira and Amon, whose faces were almost identical masks of steely composure. The tip of Nagira's cigarette glowed briefly as it dangled from between his lips. "I'm not looking to take _anyone_'s power away from them," she began, timidly.

"It does not matter. By nature of your existence, you will take the power away from those who do not deserve it." Sigrún appeared determined even as Eirikur decided to fling bits of mashed, gummed carrot everywhere, baby-speaking.

"Who are these people? And why would they frown upon my situation?" Robin asked then, eyeing Sigrún with trepidation.

"They're the heads of the other major Covens—at least in the European theatre. They form a mostly old, stuffy, and bourgeoisie committee who operates behind the scenes, sometimes within even SOLOMON itself. We're not entirely sure, but we don't even think SOLOMON _knows_ that such an advanced Witch ruling party exists."

Nagira had laughed somewhat, looking over at Amon. "Figures we'd have to get involved with the fucking Craft-using Illuminati."

Robin shrugged slightly then, relaxing a bit. "Well, then. Gróa had told us that your husband was the head of the most powerful Coven in Europe. We shouldn't have to worry about this committee, should we?"

Sigrún smiled faintly then, looking wistful. "Ah, Gróa. Always a staunch believer in the grass-roots aspect of resistance." Tipping a cup of milk to Eirikur's lips so he could drink, the blonde Icelandic woman sighed. "In terms of sheer number and geographic location, yes, we probably are. However—"she couldn't help but ignore Amon's piercing glare, here, "—there are a lot of young, inexperienced members. It's very loose knit and somewhat...clandestine. _Very_ grass-roots. And the committee is still a bit of an issue for us seeing as how we're a member of it."

Amon had blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Like I explained before," Sigrún said with a sardonic little smile, "they're very stuffy. And they don't like the idea of 'half-breeds' and Seeds in their little group. We're not..." Here, she searched for the right word. "...old money enough, for them. We're sassy upstarts, simple punks, to them." She frowned. "And all this talk of an Eve _definitely_ has them talking."

Robin looked at Nagira and Amon, bathed weakly in the dim light from the small lamp on the table. The shadows played across their faces, and for a moment, as they conversed via their eyes, they looked like some kind of figures from a Greek tragedy, or some ancient statues on the sides of a cathedral. "Talking?" she'd asked quietly, swallowing. "Saying what?"

"Do you really want to know?" Sigrún asked, sympathetically. "It might hurt your pride, Robin. What they say is of no importance. They are old, foolish power-gluttons who don't recognize your powers, but soon will."

Silence from Robin. She had been busy internally debating whether or not she'd wanted to hear the words of the shadowy Witches who already hated her, simply for existing. "Yes. _I_ want to hear," Amon said, darkly. His eyes stared over at Sigrún flatly, some shadow of injury there. People were doubting his power, and hers too. And Robin knew that very few things made Amon madder than when he was underestimated or pushed aside.

A sigh. Eirikur flung a fork onto the floor, singing in baby language. "They hear the tales of a fifteen year old girl, not even good for making babies—too young, hips too small, nothing aided by the fact that she grew up in a nunnery. If she's so all-powerful, they wonder, why would she ever disgrace herself and her kind by bowing to work for SOLOMON? Why would she have to run from them when they pursued her, instead of making them her own prey? And why, they wonder, does she need guardians at all?" Sigrún paused, listening to the silence around her. "Especially, they wonder," she went on, knowing that the man across the table from her was growing silently angrier and angrier with every word, "why she has a guardian who isn't even a witch and one who is a witch but is only a Halfling, and merely a child in the art of the Craft."

There had been more silence, heavy and awkward around the table. Nagira appeared to have been appraising the words of the invisible committee, and Robin had settled for simply looking very taken aback. Amon had been glaring off into space at some invisible spot in front of him, his eyes burning indignant fury.

The sounds of Amon turning a page in the bunk below her brought Robin out of the reverie, the remembrance of the evening prior. Her lithe fingers gripped her pillow tighter, looking out over the blurring countryside. It seemed they were to be fighting a war on two fronts, soon. This wasn't as she'd imagined it, at all.

_But then what did you imagine?_ Her mind asked her. _Every witch in the world welcoming you with open arms? Just like anyone else in the world, people in power don't like to have their power threatened or usurped—even if they are witches. Did you think it would be easy? Fun?_

Her nails were almost cutting into the fabric of the pillowcase, and Amon turned another page. Robin's teeth ground against each other lightly as she pondered whether or not she'd have the strength to prove herself to the witches she'd encounter, or if she'd end up rejected and alone.

...........

By sunset the train was approaching the city of Prague. Robin had slept for a bit after wearing herself out by staring out the window, thinking. When she awoke, sitting up, she squinted groggy eyes at the form of Amon sitting next to the window on the bench seat, gazing out at the scenery flying past them.

"We're nearly to Prague," he said to her as she rubbed her eyes, stretching. Blinking, she turned her attention to the window. What seemed like millions of little red-roofed buildings dotted the landscape, crammed together so closely that no earth or greenery was visible. It reminded her of Italy, in a way.

"The Czech Republic," Robin murmured in assent. "Is this where we're staying?"

Amon paused while looking out the window in a way that managed to be distasteful and wistful at the same time. "I hope not."

Robin furrowed her brow. "Why not?"

Heavy, uncomfortable silence ensued. Finally: "I was born here."

Robin's brain reeled with the possibilities. The cramped, crowded city sprawling out below the train tracks was the city of Amon's birth. They'd come full-circle enough to return all the way to the place where he was born—another bit of his past history that she never would have known of any other way, and she quickly filed it away within the file folder in her brain. Amon Novotne was born in Prague, Czech Republic.

"Are we going to stop here for a bit?" she asked of him, feigning disinterest.

"Most likely. The train station here is fairly large. We'll more than likely have a couple hours here on the train before it leaves the station again."

Robin began to make her stealthy maneuvering towards her goal. She itched with a need to see the city of Amon's childhood, to see the streets he would have seen as a child with his mother. She stretched again, feigning lingering drowsiness. "That's good. I want to get off the train for a little bit and stretch my legs."

Her warden looked at her in a manner that seemed precisely knowing, in a subdued way. "Really."

Robin swung her legs over the edge of the top bunk, sliding down carefully until her feet hit the floor with a thud. The movement of the train felt odd to her stationary body and put a strange feeling into her stomach. "Yes. If we have a few hours here...it wouldn't be such a problem, right?"

He _looked_ at her. "I don't think it's wise."

"Why not?"

"Because it isn't."

She blinked at him, staring. His gaze did not flinch away from hers, in true Amon fashion. "You don't want to go, do you?" she asked suddenly, quietly, and pointedly.

He broke eye contact with her and resumed his looking out the window. "That's neither here nor there. I just don't think it's a very wise idea."

Robin frowned and leveled a calm yet somehow imperious look at his form, which wasn't looking at her. "I'll get Nagira to go with me."

"Nagira would probably get horribly lost. This isn't exactly an easy place to navigate." Amon cracked his thumbs.

Robin arched an eyebrow. "I'll get Sigrún to go with me."

Amon's normally downturned mouth turned down into a slight scowling frown. "I doubt she'd want to trek all around the town with a fifteen-year-old girl and an infant in tow."

Robin folded her arms over her chest, feeling somewhat offended that Amon had semi-lumped she and the baby Eirikur into the same category—annoyances and hindrances for Sigrún. "I'll go by _myself_, then."

He was scowling, then, darkly. "Out of the question."

The urge to pucker her lips into a taut little line was strong, but Robin resisted. Her arms tightened about herself and she tilted her head back even more imperiously. "Then you're coming with me."

Grey eyes slid from the window to her face. "No, I'm not."

"I will go by myself."

A muscle in Amon's jaw twitched. "You will not."

Her teeth clenched. She wanted to throw something at him. "I will."

He only stared at her stonily, coldly. She hardly _ever_ spoke to him thusly, and he was already in a bad enough mood as it was from the previous night's revelations of their standing in the witch world. The look in his eyes told Robin that she was about two steps from destroying his last good nerve, perhaps—or having him erupt into laughter in her face. She never could tell

Some part of her refused to back down, however.

"You will _not_," Amon said after a momentary pause, slowly, placing emphasis on the words.

Taking a deep breath, she hardened her face. "Yes I _will_. You may either come with me or I will go unattended. That is all there is to the matter."

He was still looking at her with the same furiously cold look plastered on his face, but his smoky eyes spoke of some untold deep emotion. She'd won. "Throwing tantrums isn't like you," he mused quietly.

Blinking her green eyes at him patiently, she attempted to maintain all of her dignity even though he'd just accused her of winning by throwing a temper tantrum. He wasn't going to cheapen her victory by making it seem like she'd gained it through immature, lesser means. "It's not, and that's why I didn't. I stated my opinion."

The corners of Amon's eyes crinkled faintly. "An opinion eloquently and subtly stated through a tantrum. I'm sure your subordinate witches will fall right in."

Feeling suddenly spunky and haughty, Robin looked down her nose at Amon slightly, making the most of her diminutive height—which was a little easier since he was seated. The subtle, amused smirk on his face only served to make her feel all the more irate. "You're a subordinate witch, aren't you? You fell in."

Amon's look of amusement did not fade. "Big words from a small girl."

Her eyes widened at him indignantly, her superiority forgotten. "I'm not _that_ small."

"Compared to your subordinate, you are," he countered. He leaned back, hands folded in his lap. "I think that perhaps this whole Eve business has gone to your head."

"It hasn't," Robin replied earnestly. "I don't want it to seem like I'm bragging or anything." She picked at a nail suddenly, furrowing her brow in thought. "I suppose that being the alpha witch does have a certain guilty pleasure in it, though. I mean..." She trailed off frowning slightly when a bit of her nail flaked off. "...I haven't ever really been good at anything in my life. I wasn't even a very good Sister, at the convent. I got into trouble constantly—I was always caught sneaking food at night when I was supposed to be in bed, I always had hair sticking out from under my head scarf, and..."

Amon looked _decidedly_ amused at this point—not that Robin noticed. She was too busy picking at her nails in a somewhat mortified manner. "...I even used to _fall_ _asleep_ when we were supposed to be studying our Scriptures or praying. I guess...maybe I was a downright rotten Sister."

Amon shrugged after a spell, mirroring the action with his eyebrows. "You might have been a rotten Sister, but I think you'll make a pretty good alpha witch."

Robin looked up at him, astounded. "Really?"

"What do you think?"

She cocked her head at him inquisitively. "I...don't know."

Amon, apparently in a rare moment of extremely good humour despite having been defeated and sassed by Robin, allowed one corner of his mouth to quirk up just a tiny bit. "I think you would look better in a pointy black hat than in a penguin outfit, anyway."

Robin couldn't stop herself from blushing, and she turned and pulled herself back up onto her bunk to keep Amon from noticing—he probably already had, knowing him. "Oh, habits don't look like penguin outfits! You're awful."

........

Nagira had probably never looked more ridiculous in his entire life. Amon had to try—really try—to keep from bursting into outright laughter. His older brother was standing outside of the train on the boarding and departure deck, bouncing Eirikur in one arm and smoking a cigarette with another. He looked decidedly harried.

"Babysitting?" he asked of the harried, smoking man in a deadpan jovial tone.

"The hell does it look like?" Nagira grumbled, taking a deep drag from his cigarette. "Remind me to kill you for being so damn possessive of the kid and forcing a room switch." He was referring to Robin, but Amon did not allow himself to take the bait. "The little guy here was up crying for half the night—and I don't know _how_, but after a while I just smashed my pillow over my head and passed out. Sigrún was exhausted today, so I offered to watch the kid for a bit while she napped."

Silence.

"Me and my damn big mouth," Nagira groused as Robin came fairly bounding off the train, almost colliding with a couple in front of her. She was still fumbling with the buttons on her peacoat. She spotted the brothers and the baby and moved towards them, fingers fussing at the buttons. "Hey, kiddo," Nagira offered by way of greeting as Robin took her customary place next to Amon, waiting for some sort of leading cue from him.

"Hello," she replied, still preoccupied with her buttons. Amon watched Eirikur staring at him, slobbery baby fingers poking into his mouth.

"We're going out around the area for a while," Amon said to Nagira, who looked fairly shocked. "Are you coming?"

"Fun for the whole family," Nagira said, bouncing Eirikur as he smashed his cigarette on the platform with a shoe. "Nah. This kid has a habit of randomly deciding to throw tantrums whenever something he doesn't like happens. And these aren't quiet tantrums, either."

Amon couldn't help himself from commenting. "Sounds like someone I know." He caught Robin shooting him a fleeting baleful look out of the corner of his eye. "Suit yourself. We won't be long. Robin wants to get some air."

"What Robin wants, Robin gets," said the lawyer, with a hint of a teasing tone. Amon _did_ frown at him then, taking half the bait. The Eve herself finally finished fixing her buttons and looked to Amon, waiting for the cue. He turned and began to walk away from Nagira, and she followed, following her cue. As they left the train station, she asked him a few small questions about the city; how big it was, how old it was, how long it'd been since he lived there. The last he answered with a bit of a clipped tone, his way of indicating to her that he didn't wish to discuss the private connections of the city to his life. He'd quote figures and history to her all day long, but he wasn't going to quote _his_ figures and history.

Robin seemed preternaturally interested in Prague, even though they'd been to all manners of places by then. Prague was a beautiful city, that he couldn't deny; and it certainly was lively, but Robin was acting as if she'd never seen a city before. He felt like he had a pretty good idea why.

Because it was something that was _his_, something that was a part of _him_; therefore Robin was devouring it vivaciously, taking it all in as quickly as she could, burning it into her brain. She supposed that by visiting the city of his birth, walking the streets that he might have walked as a child that she would somehow gain some kind of insight to him as a person, perhaps figure out what made him tick. It was almost as if she was scanning the streets intensely, excitedly, hoping to catch a glimpse of a much younger, happier ghost of himself, hand in hand with his mother—a little boy and his beautiful, crazy, eccentric, kept mother. Her eyes were struggling to see him, eight years old, bounding down the street towards the apartment he lived in with his mother, the apartment her rich parents paid for—the apartment she didn't clean, or cook in, because she didn't know how. She spent her parents' money on dinners every night—Robin's green eyes were searching the Czech streets, fervently, for the little boy and his giggling mother bounding into some expensive restaurant, severely underdressed and too loud.

Amon knew that Robin was hoping that by integrating herself into this part of his history, that she would become somehow closer to him.

If she only knew how close she'd gotten. If she only _knew_.

His musings of Robin searching for the ghost of himself and his mother began to play tricks on his own mind. Every tall, thin, long brown-haired woman he suddenly looked, in a glimpse, like his mother—her full lips pulling wide into her non-stop insane, infectious grin, her brown eyes sparkling with joy and something that wasn't quite _right_. Every teenage girl whispering into the ear of her boyfriend became his mother, stooping to whisper into his six-year-old ear that the spirits were talking to her_ again_.

Suddenly it seemed that he too was looking for the ghost of his mother in the streets of Prague. Amon knew he shouldn't have come into the city.

"Amon?" her voice cut into his thoughts—Robin's, not his mother's.

He looked to her suddenly, his hallucinations turned reveries cut into. "Yes?"

Her hand moved towards him, timidly and slowly. "Are...are you alright?" Her long fingers alit on his overcoat's sleeve, daintily. "You're sweating," she said—the unspoken afterward—_your Craft is bothering you, isn't it?_

The tactile sensation of her fingers upon his arm felt like points of light searing into his arm, even through the layers of clothing. Yes, his Craft was acting up. "I'm fine." Her hand moved away and he looked away, vaguely embarrassed and angry at himself for becoming so worked up. His eyes strayed across the busy street, looking for something stationary and inanimate to focus on.

"You seemed as if..." she trailed off, and he looked back to her suddenly as if he hadn't heard her start to speak.

"Are you hungry?" he asked pointedly, and she blinked, her train of thought halted. Her eyes spoke of understanding—_Amon steering me away from something, yet again_—and she nodded.

"A little," she replied, playing along with his strange little games of aloofness.

"We'll find something to eat and then head back to the train station," he said, walking—but doing so slowly, so that she would catch his cue and walk with him.

...........

"Thank you so much for watching Eirikur while I slept," Sigrún nearly gushed, accepting the child into her open arms with the most thankful look that Nagira thought he'd ever received. "I was terribly exhausted."

He nodded. "No prob."

"I hope he wasn't too much trouble?" she said, a lilt to her voice indicating that it was a question. The baby appeared very glad to see his mother.

"Not at all," Nagira said with a show of bravado, scratching the back of his head. "He just definitely reminded me that I'm probably not ready for any little tots of my own."

Sigrún laughed. Eirikur made raspberry noises.

............

The sounds of travel and the rhythmic movement of the train didn't seem to help her sleep any. Not even her full stomach (_vepÅové s krenem_ —pork with horseradish sauce, and _Èeský zelný salát—_Czech coleslaw, which was very strange indeed) seemed to help lull her to sleep. Her warm blankets seemed stifling rather than comforting. The soft sounds of Amon's sleeping breath below her prevented her from moving, fearful of waking him. A few minutes later, Robin heard him stir minutely below her; a simple rustling of sheets and covers, nothing more. She let out a breath she didn't even know she'd been holding.

It felt as if she'd been laying there for hours, trying to sleep. In actuality, she didn't know how long it had been since Amon had turned out the lights, but she approximated her time in bed at around an hour and a half or so. Normally she had no problem falling asleep. Usually it was Amon who seemed to have difficulty sleeping. Fate had decided to switch their roles, this night.

The train rolled on, away from Prague and the Czech Republic, destined for Budapest, Hungary; from there they went to Budapest, Romania, to Warsaw, Poland, to Leipzig, Germany. From Germany they would _finally_ reach their destination—Copenhagen, Denmark. Robin's mind reeled. So many countries, so little time. There was no possible way that SOLOMON could have successfully followed them; even _she_ didn't know where she was, exactly. Her warm breath fanned out on her unfamiliar train pillow.

All the pillows her head and hair laid upon were unfamiliar. The train pillow was no different, except that it was a train pillow. That was something new and different.

From Denmark, where? Who? What? How? How to be a big girl and command respect, win over a committee of surly, unfamiliar witches; how to establish herself as the Eve? And to what means? In the beginning—oh, how naïve—she'd merely wanted to take on SOLOMON.

One girl and her warden against the world.

Taking on SOLOMON had turned out to encompass sucking in her warden's brother, and a woman who laid down her life for them. It turned out to encompass having to take over the witch world before she could think about anything else, and it had served to complicate her life tenfold.

All on the road to becoming the alpha witch. Had she really commanded respect today, bending the unflappable Amon to her will, or had he been subtly teasing her as he sometimes did? Robin admitted, internally, that it had felt immensely bizarre having Amon acknowledge her—perhaps even in jest—as the _alpha_ among them. _He'd_ always been her alpha, and still persisted to be. Even if she had to argue with him sometimes, even if he frustrated her (an emotion she was still relatively unfamiliar with), he was her alpha. What he lacked in control over his Craft he made up for in intelligence, composure, actions, and—

--and Robin sighed very quietly and softly as she realized her train of thought had degenerated to daydreaming about the man sleeping in the bunk below her. Perhaps as a way of getting back at him for invading her thoughts, she rolled over noisily, making sure she made plenty of movement and rustlings. Stilling, she heard Amon's reply stirring as he awoke at her shufflings.

"Amon?" she whispered in the darkness, and more rustling was heard from the bunk below her. "Are you—"

"Yes. I'm awake." He sighed through his nose. "Why are you?"

"I..." Verdant eyes squeezed shut in the darkness, feeling impossibly silly. "I can't sleep."

Travelling-train sounds filled the small cabin. Someone walked past heavy-footedly in the hall outside their compartment.

"Shall I tell you a bedtime story?" Amon asked, in deadpan.

Robin rolled over again, almost tossing, her small body moving about under the covers in frustration. "I'm _serious, _Amon."

"You're usually asleep far before I am," Amon said, a frown present in his voice. "Something is bothering you."

Robin bit her lip, staring at the wall of the cabin. When was something _not_ bothering her? It seemed as if her brain was working non-stop double-time, all the time, and she didn't know how to shut it off. She was beginning to feel the tendrils of a wicked headache wrapping around her skull and she winced. "Do you really think I'm the alpha?" she asked him suddenly, a split second later wondering why she'd chosen to blurt _that_ out.

Amon was, as ever, enigmatic and distinctly Amon in his reply. "Perhaps. Why?"

The tow-headed witch squirmed in her bunk; was this what teenagers who referred to summer camp experiences were familiar with? Sleeping in an unfamiliar, uncomfortable bunk bed, having conversations with someone that they kind-of-knew late into the night? "Not even talking about witches all over the world. What about just between you, Nagira, and me?"

What sounded like a chuckle came from below her. "Nagira's not a witch."

"He's a witch sympathizer. They're kind of the same in SOLOMON's eyes, right?" Robin frowned. "Well? Am I still the alpha?"

Once again, the reclusive reply: Amon was waiting for her to come out and explain herself before he gave her any kind of definitive answer. "Why?"

"It just seems a bit odd, is all. To hear _you_ refer to me as the alpha witch...I know your powers over your Craft aren't all that developed, yet, but among the two of us I'd definitely consider you the alpha, in terms of skill and other things." Robin bit the bullet and explained herself, waiting for a reply.

"Are you saying that because you believe it or because I am the older half and the male half, the more violent half?"

Robin stopped to think about it for a moment; feeling the headache in her brain starting to condense and take form. Why couldn't he just answer her? Why did he have to answer her questions with more questions? "Well, no," she finally replied, somewhat embarrassed. "It's just because you're...you, I suppose." Robin felt as if they were straying into rather strange territory. She couldn't recall a situation where they'd discussed the dynamics of their relationship so in-depth a manner. "You do have a quite specific way of unintentionally asserting your...alpha-ness to people."

This time, the noise that came from below her most definitely was a chuckle. "Who says it's unintentional?" Amon said, a measure smugly. "Robin, half of power—perhaps _more_ than half of it is making people _believe_ that you have it. Intimidation is a lot of bending people to your will."

She shifted, uncomfortably. "You make it sound so horrible. Manipulative."

"Perhaps, sometimes, it is." Amon's tone was even, well-natured, like that of a parent speaking to a confused child. "But it works well. And whoever doesn't bend to your will often doesn't have to bend because they simply move out of your way. Even if you do not have the power, making a person believe that you do can often trick them into handing it over to you. You have the power, Robin; you just are not adept at making people believe you have it. A bit of the opposite is true for me, I believe. And when you learn to make people believe you have the power, when you learn to make people move out of your way—it'll be all the better, because you'll actually _have_ the power to back up your actions."

A weighty question balanced on the tip of Robin's tongue and she wasn't sure if she wanted to ask it or not because she wasn't sure if she wanted to know the real answer. "This philosophy, Amon—do you often use it on me?"

Silence. Stark, startled silence. She could almost _sense_ Amon's surprise. He hadn't thought she'd ask a thing like that.

She was almost holding her breath. "Do you?" More silence. A genuinely rotten feeling began to gather in Robin's gut. "_Do_ you, Amon?"

A sigh, exasperated. "What do you want me to say to _that_?" he asked, sounding worn. It was as if he was verbally throwing his hands up in the air. "Damned if I do, damned if I don't—if I say yes, you'll think I'm a monster, if I say no, you're not going to believe me, are you?"

Teeth rubbed against each other lightly as Robin pondered that. Her heart sank some. "Why do you think I wouldn't believe you? Because you feel like you _do_ use that strategy on me, sometimes, and I had picked up on it?"

"Does it ever occur to you, Robin, that I am _raising_ you?" Amon asked, suddenly, dodging the question artfully by once again bringing up another question. "There is no other guardian figure in your life, is there not?"

"Nagira."

A distasteful noise issued forth from Amon. "He'd make a rather poor guardian, I'd be inclined to say. You're the one who lived with him in my absence—how was that?"

More silence. Apparently the ex-Hunter had assumed that he'd effectively steered the conversation away from the relationship dynamic by directing it towards Nagira, but Robin clung fast. "I...Amon?"

"What?" Exasperation.

"You do, don't you?" Her voice was small, betrayed.

A fierce rustling of covers and sheets was heard from below her and she batted her eyes in surprise at the sudden commotion, propping herself up on an elbow and looking over her shoulder with a confused look on her face. "Ah _Jesus_, Robin, this again?" Amon's face appeared at level with her bunk, looking put out and irritated and out of patience. "_Look_," he began rather fiercely, perhaps as fiercely as he'd ever spoken to her, "I'm not _that_ much of a monster, little girl, and I refuse to let you make me feel like one. You can think of me as some big, bad, evil creature _all_ you want, but don't try to force guilt on me."

She looked at him with a plaintive look that was part sadness and part pleading. "Why can't you ever just answer me? I just wanted an answer. I wasn't trying to force guilt on you at all."

Amon's intensely irritated disposition did not wane. "This is not you versus me. I am _not_ your enemy, no matter how convenient it is for you to make me into that."

Robin sat up more fully, frowning, her face then displaying complete hurt. "I never—I didn't _think _that you were my enemy! I didn't mean that at all."

"Well, then, Robin," Amon said, hands coming to rest on his hips as he stared at her intently, "honestly, _what_? What _do_ you mean? What _are_ you trying to say?"

At that point, he'd succeeded in flustering her so and leading her around in circles so many times by answering questions with more questions that she honestly didn't know anymore. She couldn't even really remember what her internal goal had been when she'd started the conversation a few minutes ago. All she knew was that Amon was standing there, staring her down, waiting for a reply. And somehow he could always avoid giving her any kind of straight response but she always had to reply, to explain herself.

Something was not adding up, somewhere—a small portion of her brain told her this. Another, larger portion crumpled under the weight of Amon's stare.

"Oh, nothing," she sighed miserably, laying back down and turning her face to the wall. She could feel Amon's stare burning into her back as she burrowed down under her blankets. "Forget I said anything. I just want to sleep."

"So you don't have an explanation for being unnecessarily accusatory, out of nowhere?" he asked again, unmoving.

"I didn't mean to be that way," Robin replied, voice muffled by layers of cotton and stuffing. "We should just sleep."

Without warning, she heard Amon's footsteps and then the opening and closing of the door. He'd left. She'd actually irritated him enough to make him _leave_. That was a first, out of all the times she'd irritated him.

She wasn't proud.

........

Outside the cabin, Amon walked down the hallway, brain whirring. Robin was more perceptive, at times, than he would have liked or that she would have let on. She was more perceptive than most women _twice_ her age.

She'd been so close. So close to suddenly ripping the cover off the whole process of his defense against her, his way of keeping her quiet and meek and unthreatening to him; his failsafe way of keeping her from eating him alive with the force of her personality, will, and beauty.

She'd also been so close to just grabbing the reins of control from him with that same motion, reversing the scales of power and asserting herself as the _true_ dominant party between them. He was only in power because she let him be, because she didn't know what kind of power she held on her own. Some day, she would realize not only because she would have to, but because she was going to figure it all out. Gaining control over him was the first step towards realizing that she _had_ power, at all, and that once she conquered him, she could conquer _anyone_. And he would help her, if she didn't exercise her power over him and kick him to the curb, like he probably would deserve.

It frightened Amon—frightened him to death, actually—that the Robin's two realizations would almost certainly have to come hand in hand, and that they would have to come soon. In order to be that which Sigrún and her husband supported, loved, needed, Robin was going to have to learn to muscle people into line. She was going to have to learn how to scare other witches who didn't believe in her power, and make them jump at her command. She would have to learn how to command respect from those witches who already believed in her. All of that had to come before she could ever hope to take on SOLOMON.

And in light of the speed at which events were moving, the speed of the train hurtling towards their destination with cold efficiency, Amon knew his days as the alpha were limited. Robin would learn—and he would help her there, because he wanted her to succeed and flourish and be beautiful and happy, damnit—or they would fail. Worse over, they would more than likely die, and it wouldn't just be them. It would be Nagira, Sigrún, her child, her husband, and everyone else associated.

Gróa was already dead. Was it a pattern, he wondered, for people who helped Robin and him to advance, to die?

It was funny to Amon, sometimes, how big of shockwaves being invisible could cause.

All of this—and more—he pondered, walking aimlessly between cars in the middle of the night, as the train moved inevitably towards Northern Europe.


	16. Erase, Rewind

Something wasn't right, that much was obvious. Robin and Amon had been acting like they barely knew each other for two days. Nagira himself had noticed it right away; it'd taken Sigrún another day to notice it and mention something to Nagira.

"Lover's quarrel," he'd explained to her when she'd asked him what was happening. Sigrún's eyes had widened and she'd looked at Nagira.

"So then...they _are_...?" She had asked him, trailing off. Nagira had laughed slightly and shook his head.

"No, no. Just a figure of speech." Looking back at her evenly, he had quirked an eyebrow. "Why? Would it bother you if they were?"

Sigrún had shrugged, rifling through her bag for something or another. "No. I actually think it'd be better if they _were_. Perhaps they would learn to communicate better."

And now they were on day two and they were nearly to Copenhagen, and Nagira couldn't even coax Amon and Robin to say more than a sentence to each other. _Of course_, his brain grumbled,_ right when it's the most important for them to show a unified front and communicate and formulate a plan, they get in a stupid little fight and now they're going to look like a bunch of petulant grade-schoolers to the people we're going to meet._ He watched them across the table from him, going about their dinner business as if the other one didn't exist. Robin looked sadder than usual—and that was damned downright _depressing_, since she always seemed to look sad to Nagira—and perhaps Amon looked a bit more edgy than usual. Nagira's eyes flicked to Robin's plate; she was finished with her dinner and was only sitting there drinking a cup of coffee.

"Robin," he piped up suddenly, and she looked over at him with wide eyes. "Sigrún had mentioned earlier that she'd wanted you to drop by her room later on. I'm not sure if she wants to talk to you or if she needs help with the kid or what, but you might as well go see what she wants."

Amon's eyes looked up from his plate minutely and bored into Nagira from across the table dangerously. _Don't you dare stick your nose into this_, the look on his little brother's face seemed to hiss. Nagira ignored it. Robin was pushing her chair back slowly, unsurely, a bit confused by the sudden revelation. Nagira nodded reassuringly at her. "Go on. Go. We're just gonna finish up dinner here, anyway. I promise you ain't gonna miss anything." Robin, somewhat pacified by Nagira's words, pushed her chair in and walked away from the table, her cute little black mary-jane shoes striding purposefully but unsurely towards the exit.

Silence reigned between the brothers for a moment. Nagira was watching Amon, who for the most part seemed to be ignoring his brother's existence, continuing his meal.

"So, what the hell's wrong with you two?" Nagira said, diving right in. "Did you catch Robin with another boy at the drive-in movie, or what?"

"Fuck off." Amon hadn't sounded amused in the least at Nagira's teasing. He occupied himself with his plate.

"Oh, c'mon. It's obvious something happened," Nagira went on, scraping at his own plate and pushing a last forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. "You two had some kind of little spat and now it's obvious to anyone who's got eyes—even Sigrún, who doesn't even know you two all that well," he said around a mouthful of potato. Swallowing, he reached for his pack of cigarettes on the table and his lighter and lit one, watching his brother pretend as if eating his dinner in the fastest manner possible was the most interesting thing in the world. "Do I have to go ask _her_?"

Amon looked up finally, casting another dangerous look at Nagira—a dangerous look whose warning was largely ignored by the receiving party. "Nothing happened. So drop it. And leave Robin alone."

A reaction, finally. Nagira quirked an eyebrow high and gazed at Amon through the smoke. "So if nothing happened, why can't I ask Robin about it? Are you afraid of what she'll say?" Silence. "I figured I would try to talk to you first—shows what a dumbass I am—because I'd _mistakenly_ assumed that you'd be mature about this and talk about what happened. If I have to go ask Robin, I will. I _know_ she'll spill."

Amon frowned deeply, laying his fork down with a purposeful _clink_. Staring down the man across the table from him, he reached for the pack of cigarettes and withdrew one himself, lighting it. "Nothing _happened_. Robin's young and easily offended. She's acting her age, and it's showing."

"Well, you're _not_ acting your age and it's showing too." Nagira watched the cigarette across the table from him flick, hard, in irritation. "Whatever happened, you're both being awfully silly about it. Hasn't it occurred to you that you're about to meet a whole bunch of people that you two are going to need to _impress_, and you're busy running around acting like some school kids in study hall?" Amon said nothing in reply. "I shouldn't have to step in and mediate like this, you know. You two have been living together for a long time now and you still act like a couple of awkward little kids a lot. I'd suggest that you two apologize to each other and make busy with the not stepping on each other's toes before we get to Copacabana or _wherever_ the hell it is we're going. Otherwise I think you're gonna find that very few people are going to be willing to take you seriously when you can't even manage the relationship between you and Robin."

"When the hell did you become some sort of relationship counselor?" Amon asked flatly. He sounded irritated, but didn't fight back any more—he knew that his brother was right, Nagira could tell. Amon knew that Nagira was right and that was probably what irritated him most of all, Robin-warfare aside.

"Sigrún asked me the other day," Nagira began, a slow smile creeping across his face, "if you and Robin were sleeping together."

On cue Amon's face darkened considerably. "_What_?" he asked, sourly. "What the fuck business is that of hers, at any rate?" A telltale sign of Amon in distress or in thought—at least internally—was the hand that came up to rub at his forming beard, roughly. He took a lengthy drag from his cigarette and did not falter under Nagira's gaze. "Why the hell were you talking about Robin and I?"

"From the way you're reacting, it's hard to believe that you two aren't sleeping together." Nagira grinned at his brother's look of utter murder. "Easy, killer. We _all_ know that you're a perfect saint." He couldn't stop his grin from growing wider at his little brother's growing anger and exasperation. "But it seems to be the general consensus that you and Robin would get along better and communicate better if you were to—"

Amon looked incredulous. "If we were to sleep together." Grey eyes blinked slowly, fingers crushing a cigarette, hand rubbing fiercely along facial hair. "I can't believe you."

"—apologize." Nagira, still grinning, raised his eyebrows high. "Hmm. Got something rolling around in that brain of yours, buddy?"

That was all it took. Amon, snarling, smashed his cigarette into an ashtray and left the table without another word, stalking out of the dinner car. Nagira watched him going with the same grin, snickering somewhat. Most of the time he just felt plain sorry for Amon but there were plenty of times that he couldn't help but laugh at his brother—especially when he painted himself into a rather telltale corner.

Especially when it was about Robin.

........

Despite the blackness of the sky and the slushy rain falling in torrents, Copenhagen managed to keep up a small front of cheer. That shocked Robin. She hadn't expected it to look like it did—she'd expected Copenhagen to be cold, bleak, dark, despairing—just like she'd learned from _Hamlet_. Apparently a lot had changed for the Danes since then.

They bounced along in an old Checker Marathon—not that she would have known that on her own. Nagira, whom apparently had an affinity for old American cars, had expressed his utter shock at seeing such an antiquated old beast in Europe. "They used to use these things for taxi cabs in New York City, ages and ages ago," he'd told Robin, who was bewildered by the fact that the car had two backseats facing each other, and a large foot space in between them. One could have easily fit a small table between the two seats. "There are two back seats so that the taxi drivers could fit more people in, and the reason the foot room is so big is because people would put their luggage, briefcases, what-have-you down there. Neat old car."

"Trygve always was fond of old American cars too," Sigrún interjected, holding a smiling Eirikur in the seat opposite from Robin, Amon, and Nagira. She sat with her back to the driver's seat, which held a quiet, fair-haired male driver. "He said he thought they looked very classy. This car was actually Gróa's at one point—but when they divorced, she allowed him to take it."

"Why?" Nagira asked incredulously. "A car as old as this, in this good of shape? This thing's probably worth a small fortune by now."

Sigrún smiled but somehow the smile managed to look like a pained grimace. "Perhaps she let him have it because she knew he loved it so. Perhaps she wanted to be rid of all of the memories of their old life together. I'm not certain. I never asked." Subtly, the tone of her voice suggested that perhaps Nagira shouldn't have, either. Amon gave Nagira a quick warning look, and Nagira resumed looking out the window through the slush at the colourful, tall buildings.

Robin looked back from her window, refusing to let herself look at Amon, whom was sandwiched between herself and his brother. "Do you and Trygve live in Copenhagen?" she asked, conversationally. Sigrún looked mildly relieved at the change in topic.

"Not exactly," she replied. "When we married, he purchased a home just outside of Copenhagen. It's an old holdover from the times when Denmark's monarchy was actually important—when dukes and lords and such were granted estates."

Robin's eyes widened. "You live in an _estate_?"

To that, Sigrún laughed, bouncing her baby on her knee. He laughed too, as if his mother's laugh was connected to him somehow. "Maybe I was incorrect to say _estate_. It's a large house; quite a few rooms—but the tract of land is actually rather small and I'm sad to say that we haven't been diligent at keeping up on certain portions of the house."

"Oh." Robin's curious green eyes strayed once again to the window, once again to the plethora of tiny, smashed together flats lining the streets, in many shades of blue, yellow, red, and brown. "Is your house colourful, like these?" she asked.

"Oh, no. It's somewhat dull, I suppose, by Copenhagen standards. You shall see once we arrive," the Icelandic woman replied a trifle enigmatically. It seemed that she always liked to surprise them in, in some way, always have a little trick up her sleeve—hopefully, Robin thought, they would all be good tricks.

.......

Holding her heavy sack uselessly in one hand, and a smaller bag in her other, Robin stared up at the home in front of her. The sleet had since let up and her breath hung in the air in little grey clouds. The house was a large, three-story affair; covered by grey stone and ornate windows. Foliage pressed in around it in the form of evergreen trees and some trees who were not as lucky, their bare branches shaking in the cold wind. The stone drive leading up to the house was shielded by trees that stubbornly clung to some of their rapidly yellowing leaves. Robin blinked.

"_Estate_," she murmured under her breath. Amon, who just happened to be walking past her at that moment with his own bag in tow, paused briefly in front of her and turned to look back. They still hadn't been on the best of terms since that night on the train outside of Prague, and on the evening on the train that she'd talked with Sigrún after dinner, Robin could have sworn that she had returned to the room to discover Amon irritated by her very _existence_.

"What was that?" he asked, his tone slightly clipped and stand-offish. She shook her head, looking away from him.

"Just a sigh," she replied, and re-gripped her bags. Wordlessly, she resumed walking, as did Amon. Behind them Nagira helped Sigrún with her bag as she carried Eirikur up the drive; the silent driver in the Checker Marathon had departed immediately after dropping them off. Sigrún had explained that he had other business to attend to.

At the grandiose front door, Robin and Amon waited in uncomfortable silence for their traveling companions. Upon arrival at the door, Sigrún smiled at them slightly. "Well, we're home," she murmured, obviously pleased. "Thanks be to the Gods for granting us safe travel here." She opened the door and walked in, and Robin followed, with Nagira and Amon in tow.

The main room was a masterpiece of dark wooden molding and ornate carving. Richly coloured and patterned carpets adorned the dark wooden floor, and the wide, curving staircase that led upwards to the second floor was covered with a deep green, red, and blue rug. The giant framed windows allowed the grey light in, but most of the room's warm, ambient lighting came from a giant hanging light fixture, made from wrought iron and cast into many curves and hooks, swirls and curls. At one point in time it had probably housed many gas lamps, lit every night, but now it had been converted to electricity.

Robin realized she was gawking. Nagira had whistled, long and low. Amon appeared largely unaffected by the dark, elegant beauty of the house around him. Sigrún turned to them with a smile and set her bag down in the middle of the floor. "Well, I won't waste time. I shall show you to your rooms right away so that you can get settled in and perhaps have a rest, then you can meet some of the other inhabitants here. Trygve will be overjoyed that you've come. It shall give us something to take our minds off of the grief of my sister passing."

Robin hadn't really thought about it until Sigrún had mentioned it, and she continued to ponder it as she followed the group up the stairs, carefully balancing her bags and her steps. Sigrún hadn't appeared too terribly shaken up about the death of her sister, really; and Robin thought that very strange. It was obvious that the woman was, at times, uncomfortable speaking about what had transpired between herself, her sister, and her new-husband-and-ex-brother-in-law, but she appeared to have at least cared for her sister somewhat deeply. The thought turned into a burning question in Robin's mind, but she realized that it would have been highly rude and inconsiderate to ask such a question as _doesn't the fact that your sister's body lays in her bed, in Iceland, bother you at all?_

Another thing struck Robin: was anyone going to even make _funeral_ arrangements for poor Gróa? Or was she just doomed to rot there, unnoticed forever, in her snow-covered little home?

By the time Nagira had been shown to his room, and Amon had been shown to his (which, of course, was _always_ right next to Robin's), Robin's very soul felt heavy with sadness and horror all over again much like it had been that night in Iceland. She forced herself to focus on the smiling Sigrún's words of the gracious hostess.

"...the rooms connect, of course," Robin started listening just in time to hear Sigrún say. She assumed that her hostess was speaking of she and Amon's rooms. "And sadly, yours is one of the rooms in the house that hasn't been converted to electricity. It is, however, one of the more beautiful rooms in the house, and I thought it fitting that you should have it. There are plenty of gas lamps in the room, and if you'd like, I can have one of our maids come to light them for you shortly instead of having to do it yourself."

Sigrún stopped dead in the middle of her hostess-type-words. "...I just realized how ridiculous of a suggestion that was. Forgive me, Robin."

Robin forced a small, polite smile onto her thought-weary face. "That's alright. I'll be able to light them myself, I think."

Sigrún was holding a hand to her head, shaking it slightly with wide eyes. "I was...I guess I wasn't thinking, really. There I was, imagining you having to climb up upon chairs and tables to reach the lighting fixtures...! How silly of me!" She laughed a little at herself, and Eirikur laughed with her once more. "Well. That aside, if you need anything, please feel free to ask. We have two maids here—their names are Beatrix and Helle, and they should be able to tend to your needs. A word of caution, however—Helle's English is not too good. Their Danish is perfect, of course, because they're Danish. They both speak passable Dutch and I believe some French, however. I don't think it should be a problem with Beatrix, her English is rather good."

Robin found it hard to concentrate. "Oh. I see. That'll be fine."

"I'll leave you to your own devices, then." A smile. "Just come downstairs whenever you're ready and rested, Robin."

"Thank you," she replied softly. "I will."

Inside the room she dropped her bags by the door with loud thumps on the old floor. The room was dim, the curtains drawn over what appeared to be a large, ornate window with two halves that opened outward.

Robin sighed, and every wick on every oil lamp in the room ignited, bathing the room in a warm yellowish light. Suddenly very depressed and very tired, she didn't even bother to take in the surroundings of her room as she trudged in the general direction of the bed. Flopping across it horizontally, she pulled her legs up and curled into a ball, not even bothering to remove her shoes. As was typical for her whenever she was truly tired, Robin was sleeping within minutes.

.........

The man sitting behind the desk was, like his wife, extremely fair-haired and blue eyed. The only real difference in what was becoming apparent as the typical Icelandic look was that the man had a fair spattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks. He sported a neatly trimmed blonde moustache and a head of fairly long, very curly hair.

He looked, Nagira thought, like a slightly refined version of a Viking. The man was not small, by any means; he dwarfed his tiny wife, and he definitely would have dwarfed Gróa. He was a little shorter than Nagira and Amon, but was a bit larger than his brother was.

In short, Trygve didn't look like someone you wanted to mess with. Trygve reached down onto the desk to retrieve a pair of glasses, and perched them on his face. He squinted more closely at Nagira and his brother—whom, Nagira sorely wished, would quit acting like a big baby in regards to Robin, and would shave his scraggly mess of a face.

"Can I smoke in here?" Nagira asked, suddenly, and Trygve smiled at him.

"I'm sorry, but I'd prefer if you didn't." He indicated the bookshelves lining the room. "I have some very old texts in here, and it's enough to fight the damp destroying them. There is a parlor on the other side of the entry room that you may smoke in, or the dining room. I would also ask that you please refrain from smoking in any of the rooms. Some of the tapestries and furnishings are very old in those rooms, and I would hate for the smoke to damage them."

Nagira nodded and internally grumbled. "Fine by me. At least you're not gonna make me go outside."

Amon sat forward in his high-backed, deep reddish-leather chair, steepling his fingers under his scruffy chin. "Tell me more about this committee your wife spoke of."

The blue eyes behind the glasses blinked with shock. "Right to the point, eh? No sooner than the introductions are out of the way the planning is to begin?" Trygve smiled faintly at Amon. "Do you not think we should await Robin's arrival to discuss this matter?"

Amon did not waver. "I'll inform her of necessary information later, or she can inquire of you herself if she so wishes. For my own purposes, I'd like to be informed." There was a pause in Amon's speech. "It would do more good to tell me about this committee than it would to tell Robin, anyway. She...has no mind for logistics."

Nagira hid his eye roll behind a palm rubbed over his face. _Way to go, big man! Silently win the big fat war with the fifteen-year-old by insulting her when she's not around to fight back. _

Trygve leaned back in his chair, reaching for his cup of coffee and sipping from it. "I see," he said, replacing the mug onto the desk. "Well, then. Here's the short of it. The committee is a group of six witches reigning from around Europe; all very powerful, all very connected, all very...what's the saying? Old money?"

"Mommy and daddy's mommy and daddy were rich bastards?" Nagira supplied with a shrug. Trygve nodded and pointed at the lawyer.

"Precisely! So, each of the committee members, in turn, is the head of their own coven. These covens are also very powerful and very connected, very old money. They're a manner of...witch elite, I suppose one could say. At least here in the European theatre, they largely hold the reigns of power in the witch community."

Amon nodded slowly, absorbing the information. His eyes narrowed in thought. "What do they do? Are they as a crime syndicate would be? Business connections, illegal trades, anything of the sort?"

Trygve shrugged almost nonchalantly. "Not that we know of. As much as we can tell, they're just elitist old fools who like holding the reigns of power and aren't afraid to kill people—humans, witches, whoever—to hold onto it. They're under the impression that their positions of power are somewhat...inherited. It's a large deal of their pride. They believe that they have the _right_ to terrorize and subdue other witches because their ancestors somewhere along the line were witches."

Frowning, Nagira leaned forward in his seat then as well, almost mirroring his brother's position. "But _all_ witches have witches somewhere in their lines of ancestry. Any idiot knows that ancestry is how one _becomes_ a witch in the first place."

Once more a shrug from their host. "Exactly. But, there's a difference to them. It's kind of like...oh, say...the noble class versus the peasants. Or perhaps the idea of divine right. One party _deserves_ to be in power because they're smarter, prettier, richer, favoured by God, what have you. The other party was just born to serve and be used."

"That's _wonderful_." Amon looked severely put out. "In essence you're telling me that these people have already made up their minds about us before they've even met us, right?"

Their host's smile appeared, seemingly absurd for the particular moment in the conversation. "Bingo! They _really_ don't like the idea of some little, all-powerful upstart girl who thinks she's the master of all witches. It's taken me the better part of two years just to get onto speaking terms with the fools, and it's still a big show of condescension at best. I think the only reason they're even minutely willing to listen to my _prattle_ is because there's a bit of money in the family."

Lawyer looked to ex-Hunter as the host looked on. "Maybe that could swing in your favour, buddy. There's money on all sides of the family, true, but Japanese money ain't gonna mean squat to these people, probably. That and I'm a measly little human. But you...you've got ancestry and money in a European family backing you. They might like that."

The ex-Hunter pondered the lawyer's statement for a spell, fingers running repeatedly over facial hair. "I'll play that card if I have to, if it appears it'll be necessary." Amon sighed, closing his grey eyes wearily momentarily. "But that still doesn't change the fact that they're already going to fundamentally dislike me for being on Robin's...side, in this whole bit. And what would I say to them, anyway? I'm not Gandhi. It isn't as if it would be as simple as me saying 'You hate SOLOMON, we hate SOLOMON, let's unify under this _child_ and take them down'."

A comment bit at Nagira's tongue and he couldn't hold it back. "She's not a child and you know it, Amon. And if they want to be political about it, maybe I could try to weasel myself in there somewhere and butter 'em up a bit. I mean, I am pretty good at talking and politics." Nagira grinned wolfishly. "I went to school for it."

.......

Lights were swirling all around her; less apparent as the phenomenon of light and more apparent as what looked to be black and white paint mixing in a swirl all around her. For the first time, she could see herself clearly among the swirling anti-world. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the swirling void, she felt as if she was floating.

Her ears strained to hear the murmuring voices all around her, so many in quantity and so low in volume that they sounded like the far away, unified chanting of monks. For being a void it was uncommonly warm—a soft, comforting sort of warmth—and Robin laid down on her side drowsily, her stomach flipping slightly at the sense of laying down weightlessly, in nothing.

As usual, the murmuring began to intensify, and Robin's void self squeezed her eyes shut tightly, in concentration. "What? I can't understand you all," she murmured out loud, balling her fists up under her chin and drawing her legs closer to her body. In the womb-like warmth of the void, she was compelled to try to mimic a fetus.

The murmuring stilled and quieted for a moment but then began again in earnest. Robin frowned disappointedly, opening her eyes. "I'm trying to understand you, but I can't when you all speak at once. If we want to talk, we're going to need to work together."

So it went for what could have been moments or time immeasurable. Robin spoke to the lights around her, coaxingly, encouragingly, trying to get them to understand that she _wanted_ to understand them and wanted to very badly, but that she couldn't unless _they_ understood that she couldn't listen to them all at once.

Eventually she gave up and closed her eyes again, pressing her hands over her ears. The swirling of the lights stopped, and they all began to break off into separate, individual entities. She gave a shaky sigh, feeling defeated. "Half of having power is making people think you have it," she whispered to herself there in the void, not caring whether or not the murmurs could hear her or not. For a few moments she laid there and collected herself, and then lifted her hands from her ears, snapping her eyes open.

"_Listen_," she began, with as much authority as she could muster—which, startlingly enough to her, seemed to be a lot. Her voice sounded severe and unfamiliar to her. "You all need to help yourselves before I can help you. Now you need to learn to speak in turns, or communicate better, or something, because I can't understand all of you when you're going on like a bunch of squawking birds." She drew in a breath, waiting for a reaction. The murmuring was significantly hushed, as if mollified. "And I won't tire myself out trying to understand a bunch of people who aren't going to learn how to communicate!"

The murmuring withdrew from her, leaving her feeling suddenly cold and alone in the void. The lights no longer looked warm and glowing but cold and eye-burningly bright. It was almost as if the voices were whispering to each other about _her_, talking behind their hands into each others' ears, their eyes riveted on her. Robin sat up, pushing herself up on unsure arms. "So now you're going to forsake me because I yelled at you?" she asked, some part of her intrinsically irritated. "I'm being as fair as I think I can be. If you want to be immature about it, then be my guest. No one ever said I had to come here. No one ever said I had to _try_ to talk to you."

And then she stopped dead in her speech, blinking in shock at herself. Her voice, so unfamiliar from her own slightly trembling lips, suddenly seemed very familiar to her.

It was as if Amon's consciousness had grabbed her vocal cords and forced them to move. The words coming from her mouth barely sounded like something she herself would say, but something that Amon would say.

Then, suddenly, a small voice from amongst the murmuring broke free, completely audible and discernable to Robin's alert ears: _Hungry_.

Robin scrambled to stand on trembling, eager legs. Her green eyes searched the lights desperately, eagerly, a smile finding its way onto her face in spite of herself. "Hungry? You're hungry? I can _hear_ you! What else? Who are you?"

_Hungry. Alone. Unfamiliar faces..._ The voice was echoing in Robin's very mind as she began to stumble headlong through the lights around her, watching them swirl and rotate around her to prevent her from running into them. Her heart was pounding and she was grinning, smiling like a child. "I'm sorry you're so sad, but—I'm sorry, I'm so glad I can _hear_ you! Where are you? What can I do to help?" Her hands parted the gloom like a machete slicing through thick jungle foliage, and the murmuring around her intensified. While searching, Robin _reached _out with her mind as far as she possibly could, and as if on cue the void around her became never-ending; she seemed to be floating in the universe, surrounded by billions of glowing lights, some near, some far away.

_Hungry. Mother. Hungry. Scared, confused._ Robin rushed through the void at breakneck speed, her mind doing the seeing for her. At the very far reaches of its searching grasp, Robin felt a very small, very familiar presence, and the voice echoed in her skull. "You!" she practically shrieked, hurtling headlong towards the pinprick of light. "I see you! I _know_ it's you!" _Scared. Don't want to be held by you. Mother._

As she drew closer, Robin's brain began to _see, _to _feel_, to _smell_ the presence within her mind, the presence that was the source of the voice. Reaching out, her hands cradling the glow to herself, she brushed hands against a small head of soft, downy hair; a familiar smell assaulted her nose, and then—a very definitely familiar choking wail.

"Eirikur!" Robin cried, laughing, cradling the glow in her arms, bouncing him eagerly. Her mind began to slowly fill in the blanks around Eirikur; the room, his crib, two unfamiliar women speaking to each other in a strange language, one holding a bottle and the other holding a small stuffed toy. Nurses! At the same time Robin cradled the glow of Eirikur, she seemed to be able to look down and see him in his crib, kicking and wailing, red-facedly. "You want Sigrún, don't you? You're hungry, but you want Sigrún to feed you—and you want your nurses to leave you alone! Oh, I _understand_! Thank you, God, I understand!" Robin was ready to cry tears of joy at finally having _touched_ another being, another witch.

A sucking breath—she was moving backwards through the void at dizzying speeds, as if being sucked out by a giant vortex of wind. Gone was the nursery scene, Eirikur's familiar little baby voice in her head. She was moving so fast that it terrified her and threatened to make her sick to her stomach. Something had happened—perhaps she'd been somewhere she wasn't supposed to be, done something she shouldn't have done?

Gasping, Robin watched the lights all around her—billions of them—blur into nothing but lines at high speeds, the sheer terror of moving so fast threatening to wrench a shriek out of her still-bruised throat—

.......

"Robin! Robin!" Nagira was shaking the girl in his hands, watching her flushed, sweat-covered face roll back and forth on a head that seemed like a useless flower bud on an unsupportive stalk of a neck. Her mouth fell open slightly and for a split second, Nagira was scared out of his mind that she was sick, or that she was dying.

Her mouth opened all the way suddenly, sucking in air as if she'd been underwater forever, her body going rigid with the effort of it. Her eyes snapped open, small tears leaking out the moment they did. Going limp in Nagira's hands she fell backwards slightly onto the bed, gasping for air.

Not knowing what else to do, assuming a nightmare, Nagira grabbed Robin's tiny form and cradled it against his own much larger one, smoothing her slightly sweat-dampened hair. Her face smashed into his breast pocket, crushing his pack of cigarettes. They sat like that for a few moments, Nagira allowing Robin to catch her breath. She didn't appear to be crying anymore.

"You okay, kid?" he asked, gently. "Nightmare?"

Robin looked up at him suddenly and vehemently, eyes as wide as silver dollars. "I'm fine. Not a nightmare, Nagira—it was _wonderful_! I could talk to them, other witches, for the first time—before it was nothing but noise, like a crowded room with everyone in the world in it, but now...I yelled at them, and they started to calm down! I found someone! I talked to him—as much as I could talk to him, I suppose..."

Nagira's brow furrowed somewhat as he held Robin's small form away from him some by way of her thin shoulders. "Whoa, kiddo, slow down. Who? What? And who's this guy you were talking to?"

Robin was still breathing unevenly. "The...witch-world, Nagira. The lights I see when I kind of...reach out, with my mind. I can see them all. Normally I couldn't talk to them because they were all talking at once, but then I yelled at them to talk one at a time, and then they got mad at me, but then I found one and talked to him and it was _Eirikur_!" she rushed on, an uncharacteristic giggle escaping from her lips. "Eirikur, of all witches! He's hungry and fussy and he doesn't want his nurses to feed him. He wants Sigrún."

Silence befell the lawyer. He wasn't sure what to make of all of Robin's excited, rushed statement. Sure, Amon had told him briefly about Robin's ability to see in some sort of...otherworld, but he hadn't known that it entailed _this_. For some reason, he didn't doubt Robin in the least when she said she'd reached out and actually _talked_ to witches. With Robin, just about anything seemed plausible. And she seemed so sure, so full of conviction about it...it couldn't have been a simple dream.

And another thing was for sure: Amon was going to shit a brick when he heard about all of it.

"Well, that's good news then, I guess." Nagira patted his semi-crushed pack of cigarettes, and smiled at Robin. "I'm going to go have a smoke in the parlour. Why don't you come with me and tell me more about this whole weird dream—"

"It wasn't a dream!" Robin piped up, with all the vehemence of a little girl telling her father that there _was_ actually something living under her bed. "It happened while I was sleeping, but it wasn't a dream. It was real, and I can make it work now!"

"—well, okay," he answered, pacifying Robin. "I believe you. I came up here to get you for dinner, anyway. It's going to be ready soon. Come downstairs with me to the parlor and I'll have a smoke and you can tell me more about this _experience_."

Robin smiled tentatively, wiping at the rapidly drying sweat on her brow. "Okay. I am getting a little hungry."

.......

At dinner, Robin had excitedly launched into her narrative of the witch world, and Trygve and Sigrún had appeared especially pleased at the part about her making contact with their son, first. Sigrún (who appeared a bit drawn and somewhat ill) had confirmed for Robin that Eirikur _had_ indeed been being very fussy around the time it was time for his evening bottle before bed, and the maids had indeed had to come fetch her to feed him and put him down for the evening. He'd refused to drink any of the bottle from Beatrix or Helle's hands, and had even squalled at being held by both of the maids.

"He gets that way, sometime," Trygve had added after his wife's statement. "He's just very attached to his mother. He knows both the maids, they've been around since he was just born. Sometimes he just...fusses." A smile broke out on Trygve's mustached face, and he adjusted his glasses. "But this is most definitely amazing news, Robin. Thank you for telling us. And I must say that as Eirikur's father, I'm very honored that our child was the first to connect with you, the Eve, in such a manner."

Amon, on the other side of the large table, merely appeared pensive about the whole thing. He immersed himself in cutting his sole fillet up into tiny little pieces—indeed it almost looked to Robin as if he was _mashing _it—and putting it into his mouth with an evenly paced deliberateness that was masking some inner turmoil.

Nagira looked up from his own plate and over to Robin, proudly. "I'd thought she was having a nightmare when I first found her. Guess not, huh? This is pretty big news. I mean..._I've_ never heard of a witch with such wide-spread ability. Granted, Robin hasn't really gotten the hang of it yet, but just imagine. I mean, I've seen plenty of small fries with the limited ability to communicate with other people, but this...this is big."

Despite her joy at Nagira, Sigrún, and Trygve's joy, Robin desperately wished the reticent Amon would say something. She recalled their morning conversation in the hotel in Iceland, after the night when she'd accidentally lashed out at him. She wondered if that was what was running through his mind right then as he meticulously and robotically ate his food.

"You've been unusually silent, friend," Trygve said, looking to Amon, who looked up with a very, very faint 'who, me?' look on his face. "The food can't be _that_ good," their host cracked, eliciting a small laugh from a drawn-looking Sigrún.

Amon cleared his throat and wiped his mouth with his napkin, slowly placing it back in his lap. Deliberating before speaking, he refused to make eye contact with Robin. "This is a rather interesting development in the situation," he said evenly and a trifle guardedly, "and I guess we'll just have to see what comes of it. I'm not sure what to think of it at the moment."

Robin's heart sank noticeably, even if she was currently embroiled in some sort of standoff with Amon. She still wanted some sort of positive reinforcement from him, but his words had basically confirmed her suspicions for her: her warden was probably locked into thoughts of her powers, spiraling out of control, and his promise and duty.

She sighed out loud without meaning to, and went back to her food. Trygve looked over at her discreetly and then went back to his own food, choosing not to comment. The table was immersed in awkward, uncomfortable silence for a bit after Amon's lukewarm words regarding his ward's power. Nagira, as was typical, was the one to break the silence and bring up the mood.

"So, uh, living in Denmark, here," he said, pointing at Trygve and Sigrún with his fork, "do you guys have any problems with...you know, ghosts of dead kings stalking about parapets at night, or, uh, semi-mad spurned lover girls drowning themselves in local waterways?"

.......

A knock at his door roused Amon out of his copy of collected H.P. Lovecraft works. Having been interrupted in the middle of "The Colour From Space", Amon's mind snickeringly told him that on the other side of his door was going to be a meteorite that was going to drive him mad. He laid down his book and crossed the room to the door, opening it to behold a fidgeting Robin.

"Hello," she said, a bit ridiculously. Amon looked down at her.

"Hello," he answered, and then they stood there in silence. Robin picked at her nails.

"Um, am I allowed to come in?" she asked timidly, looking up from her nails to him. "Or are we still being mad at each other?"

Sighing, Amon opened the door wider and indicated that she should enter. "I suppose I'll call a truce for some bilateral negotiations." Robin shuffled past him into the room, and he closed the door behind him and then leaned against it as Robin walked over to the chair he'd been sitting in and sat down. Eyeballing the book, she picked it up and flipped through a few pages, careful not to lose the marked spot.

"What's this?" she queried.

"A collection of short stories, mostly about perfectly awful things," Amon replied, not moving from the door. "You know, the kind of thing one would expect me to read."

"Oh." Robin replaced the book on the arm of the chair and looked to the door, where Amon stood leaning, hands in his pockets. She straightened in the chair, folding her hands over her crossed legs primly. "What do you make of Trygve?"

Amon remained impassive. "Seems harmless. I suppose we'll just have to be on guard for anything unusual or threatening."

The girl across the room from him nodded, smoothing invisible wrinkles in her long, pristine dark grey skirt. "Your room has electricity," she murmured, looking around the room a bit. Amon nodded in reply.

"Sure does," he replied in monotone. He straightened up some, hands still in his pockets. "What do you want, Robin?"

She appeared decidedly hurt, just as he figured she would have. He _knew_ they couldn't go on being disgruntled at each other forever, but some part of him was still internally smarting at the fact that she had come so damn close to figuring him out so completely. Part of him was angry at himself for letting her make him add to his own guilt by making him feel even guiltier, as well. "I...just wanted to talk," she explained lamely. "We've been...avoiding each other for a few days now."

Amon nodded. "Yes, we have. There's been a reason for that."

Robin blinked at him. "Why?"

"I was angry," he said simply. "Sometimes angry people need their space."

"Oh." Robin didn't really know what to say to that, evidently. She pursed her lips and looked around the room again. "Are you still angry?"

A little honesty couldn't help things—so Amon's brain told him. The least he could do was be honest with the girl, since she'd gathered up the courage to come knock on his door, especially when he'd been trying especially hard to keep her at an arm's length the last few days. "A bit." Robin's face fell immediately, and Amon sighed, internally. "But that's mostly just me being a stubborn jerk," he added, and Robin looked up at him with a glimmer of hope in her green eyes. "You know how much I love to be one of those, sometimes."

A shy smile tugged at one corner of Robin's lips. "Sometimes."

"In any case," Amon began, leaving his position by the door and crossing the room to the foot of his bed, "I'm sure my wounded male pride will get over it, eventually." He sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned over, elbows on his knees. He and Robin looked at each other for a second. "So you wanted to talk? I find it rather amusing that you chose to _talk_ to me, instead of Nagira or a wall or something that'd be more talkative than I."

Robin, warming to his facilitating mood, shifted from her uncomfortable position in what was formerly his chair to pull her legs up to her torso, arms wrapped around them. That was seemingly her favourite position to sit in. "I tried talking to the wall, but it said it was busy and that I should go bother someone else," she said in perfect seriousness.

"And it told you to come bother me?" Amon asked, raising one perfectly serious eyebrow at his young cohort. She nodded.

"Incessantly," she affirmed.

"It seems the walls of the house were knee-deep in a Robin-Amon truce conspiracy," he mused seriously, looking down at his shoes. _You are flirting with her. She is flirting with you. And why the hell isn't there a little red warning light going off in your dense head?_ "Walls and their conspiracies aside, what do _you_ make of Trygve and this whole affair?"

The blonde pondered his question with a very serious look. "I haven't had much of an opportunity to speak with him very much, but he seems very kind. All of the people we've met so far have seemed very kind. I trust him. I believe that he just wants to help us, just like Gróa did. But because humans have their own desires, as well, I think there's at least a bit of his situation that might be benefited by helping us. I don't think it's for bad or dishonest purposes, but I guess...maybe he's somewhat of an activist."

Amon nodded, internally amazed at Robin's perceptiveness and ability to judge character. "I agree with you. He certainly struck me as somewhat of a social-conflict activist, rather irritated with the general class disparity among witches in the European theatre."

Robin 'hmm'ed. "Witches need to have a unified front if we ever, ever have chances against SOLOMON."

"True." Amon nodded slowly, rubbing at his new beard. "He realizes this. However, I think that he also opposes class disparity in general, and perhaps that's where we'd come in to serve his latent purpose."

Robin pondered that for a moment, the gears in her head whirring. "Yes. That's a tolerable latent purpose, I think. I..." She trailed off, furrowing her brow in thought. "...Did Sigrún look ill to you, at dinner?" she asked, steering the conversation in a completely different direction. Amon let it go; although having been wordlessly impressed at Robin's ability to talk strategy with him. It wasn't as if he doubted her intelligence or her abilities, but he was glad to see her at least taking an interest in planning and discussion of situations rather than just rushing into them.

"Yes, she did," Amon affirmed. "Remember that she'd told us in Iceland that she was pregnant again." Remembrance dawned on Robin's face. "Women in their first trimester of pregnancy often feel rather ill."

Shifting in her seat, Robin pursed her lips again. "I'd forgotten about that."

A conversational lull befell the two. Indicating Robin's neck, Amon cleared his throat. "Your bruises are fading," he commented. Robin's hand found its way up to her slender neck and lightly touched the fading yellowish-brown bruises there from her attempted strangulation at Gróa's house. "That's good. I think people wondered about them when they saw them, especially when we were traveling."

Robin agreed with a small humming noise. "I noticed people looking at them and then looking away quickly when I noticed them looking. I guess they figured it would have been a faux pas to bring it up." She then took her turn at indicating Amon. "You're...growing a beard?"

Amon smiled very, very faintly, running his hand over his face appraisingly. "I don't know. I just...started letting it grow. I don't think it will last very long; I suppose I just became tired with shaving my face every day to keep it clean."

"You look very different with that much facial hair."

Amon's smile grew incrementally. "You mean to say that I look _scary_ with facial hair."

She was waving her hands at him then, eyes wide. "Oh, no, no. I meant—"

"Robin, I _do_ look scary with facial hair." He looked at her knowingly. "I've got eyes. You don't have to try to be polite about it. I look like some madman one would encounter in a darkened alley."

Looking at him, decisively caught in a train of thought, Robin sighed. "Well, I hadn't meant to make it sound that way. It's _different_, but it's not...as scary as you think."

Once more Amon quirked a brow at her, regarding her in mock seriousness. "Is that so?"

She smiled at him, her eyes crinkling, their green depths betraying emotion. "I'm not scared of you."

Amon looked down at his shoes again, nodding slowly. "Yeah," he replied, sounding distracted. "You're not." _And sometimes that scares me, because if I can't push you away with fear or respect, there's not much left for me to push you away with. And I'm starting to feel like I am not pushing quite as hard as I used to. Society has already rejected us; we're not even a part of it any more. Is that why I feel like it's acceptable for me to act like you're my age; flirt with you, let you in closer than you should get? Things are not any easier when you act as if you're my age, because you just make it that much easier for my mind to incorrectly justify what I'm doing._

"Amon?" she asked, breaking into his train of analysis. "Are you alright?"

He looked up at her, forcing the impassive mask back into place over his visage. "Fine. Just thinking." The situation was becoming too close, too intimate, too much like they were a couple sitting around making small talk about their day. Amon's brain decided it was time for a diversionary tactic. "Tell me more about what happened earlier today, while you slept."

All pretext of playfulness fled Robin's face and she became serious and businesslike, ready to calmly and logically discuss her experience with him. The level of emotional proximity between them declined, and Amon began to feel comfortable in his own skin again as Robin spoke, even if she was speaking about something that made him fundamentally uncomfortable anyway—the expansion of her powers. At least it was something logical to focus on, instead of the static-fuzz blurred lines of the dynamics of he and Robin's relationship together.

A familiar question, one that popped into Amon's head quite often popped back in as Robin talked: _Why the hell can't you just be older?_

........

_Robin_, called the voice from the back room, _Robin, I know you can hear me._

Cowering in the corner of the small, dark living room with her hands pressed against her mouth, the Eve of Witches shook her head forcefully. "No. No. Why is this happening?"

_Robin, come here_. The voice was everywhere and nowhere at once, reverberating through Robin's very being. The dead body of the SOLOMON agent that she had killed still laid in the living room, decomposing and covered with squirming maggots and flies. The house reeked of human death and dried blood. Robin's eyes, already pregnant with tears, began to leak. _Be a big girl, like I know you can be, and come here._

Robin pressed her fingers tighter against her lips, continually shaking her head. "No! No! _No_! This isn't right! Why am I here?"

_You're here because no one else will come. Now come here_.

Trembling as if her body were in seizure, Robin made her way very slowly across the small living room, overly careful not to look down to the floor to where the body of her kill laid. As she approached and walked past him, the stench of human death grew exponentially, and the buzzing of flies grew louder. Maggots squished beneath her feet and she closed her eyes tightly, fat tears of fear rolling down her cheeks all the while. To the hallway she went, and when she turned she drew in a sucking breath and dropped back against the wall at the end of the hallway.

There in the doorway to the rear bedroom was another dead body, in a similar state of decomposition as the body in the living room. The other SOLOMON agent. Robin chortled on her own tears, falling into shaking her head in disbelief once again. "Stop it!" she cried, hands pressed against her temples, shaking uselessly. "Please, stop! I'm sorry! I didn't mean for you to die! But I...I..."

_But no one ever wants to pick up the pieces. It's never But no one ever wants to pick up the pieces. It's never YOUR fault. No matter—I'm not angry. Come here, Robin._

The scared girl at the end of the hallway, framed by the light from the open door at the other end, wiped at the snot threatening to drip from her nose. "I can't. I _can't_. Why are you doing this to me?"

_You're the only one who's listening. You're the only one, I think, who cares. Trygve and Sigrún would like to forget, at times, that I exist. Now they can. Nagira can't be bothered and Amon is too difficult to reach. You...you're perfect. Now come, Eve. I won't hurt you. I'm not angry. These men here cannot hurt you any longer. Ignore them._

Motivated by guilt and words, Robin moved slowly and unsteadily down the hallway towards the open bedroom door, towards the light in the house. Maggots squished, once more, under her shoes as she stepped over the dead body in the doorway, eyes closed tightly. She ignored the flies buzzing about her and entered the room fully, and then stood there in dark ignorance, eyes closed tightly.

_Open your eyes, Robin_.

Robin opened them and gasped, hands flying to her mouth once more to muffled a cry. There, across the room from her, sat Gróa, covered in blood, looking very much alive except for the fact that she was very much _dead_. Her eyes were glazed over, having taken the eerie bluish haze of the dead, and her face looked sunken in. It was grotesque.

_Hello, Eve_.

"Why?" Robin asked, chokingly, through a sob. "I..."

_Did you think that your finally opening the door to the world of the witches wouldn't come with a few little surprises? _Gróa's enveloping voice asked. _That you wouldn't cross a few other barriers, as well? I suppose it's not fair of me to say such things, because perhaps it's not true. Perhaps I'm just stuck here in limbo because I'm bitter and I refuse to move on, and I have to talk to someone. But it is entirely possible that..._ Here, the corpse of Gróa trailed off, milky eyes rolling to the side. A bit of her flesh near her neck fell to the ground, and Robin whirled away, repulsed and sobbing. _I'm sorry. You should ask Amon about his mother's power. If he wants to know why you're asking, or why you'd even bother, tell him that I told you to ask him. He'll tell you then, I'd think. The Gods are trying to tell me, through the decomposition of my body, that I need to let go of my earthly grievances and move on to their grand hall, to dine with them for eternity. I'm...not sure if I can do that yet._

Face buried in her hands, Robin sniffled. "What do you have to tell me?" she asked, softly, wanting nothing more than to get away and somehow feeling strangely guilty for it. As a live woman, Gróa was obviously lonely, betrayed, and somewhat looked-over—and Robin felt that even in Gróa's death, she was continuing the legacy.

_I don't know._ Gróa sounded unsure, sad, ethereal. _I'm sorry, Robin, that I am using you like this. I...don't know what else to do. There are a few things, however, that I am certain of. My sister's child will die._

At that point, indignation overrode Robin's rampant fear instinct, and she looked to Gróa's corpse with bewilderment. "Eirikur?" she breathed, sounding stuffy. "No! Not Eirikur!"

_No. Not Eirikur. The child within Sigrún is sick, dying. It will not live. Of this I am certain._ Gróa's corpse tilted her head inquisitively at Robin, unblinking milky eyes boring into the live girl. _Another is that you will have to be strong. _

Robin nodded, looking away somewhat. "I know that. Everyone tells me that. I'm trying."

_Try harder. _A fly landed on Gróa's corpse and began to buzz about her eye, and she seemed not to notice it. _You must. Trust in yourself. Take comfort in the support of those around you, even when it is not readily apparent. It is there. _

Wiping at her snot again, Robin shuddered with a small sob. "Amon. You mean Amon."

_You knew right away whom I spoke of. You know him better than you think._ _Robin?_

The live girl was too busy crying to reply.

_Robin?_

"What?" Robin almost shrieked, the horror of the situation starting to chip away at what little resolve she had left, starting to permeate into her mind.

_Don't forget me. Please, don't forget me. It seems that most of the people I've met in my lifetime have spent most of their either denying that they've met me or trying to forget that they ever did. You haven't, and that's why I'm here. That's why I'm talking to you._

"Please, stop," Robin whispered. "Please, don't talk like this."

_My sister and Trygve are good people. They're just...good without me. Remember my words to you. And do remember to thank Nagira and Amon for helping me. Especially thank Amon. I think it would mean much more coming from your mouth than it would coming from mine. You can go now._

"Thank you," Robin whispered shakily.

_Don't thank me. Just go. Leave me alone here. _

......

Her body snapped bolt upright in bed, covered in sweat and tears for the second time that day. Only this time around, what had happened in her sleep hadn't been as joyful of an experience. Wildly flinging her covers aside, she stifled a tremendous sob and scrambled out of bed, her bare feet hitting the thick carpet with a muted boom.

She ran for the door on the opposite side of the room that connected her room to her warden's, next to hers, and flung it open. Immediately she heard the sharp crinkling of bedsheets and covers as Amon jerked awake forcefully, and she let out the sobs she'd been squelching down inside of herself. Not caring whether or not it was alright, she practically dove onto Amon's bed, pressing her face down into the warm blankets that somehow already managed to smell like him and let out an anguished, frightened wail right into the fabric and mattress.

In the dark, she heard the safety of a gun sliding into place and the quick thud of a gun being set on a hard surface. Part of her mind registered that she'd startled Amon awake so badly that he'd grabbed for his gun and aimed in the dark. "_Jesus_, Robin! What the hell—" He was moving forward; she'd landed herself near the lower middle of the bed. His hands latched onto her arms and pulled her upwards, towards him. "Robin. Robin. What's happening?"

"Gróa," she wailed, into the covers. "Gróa..."

He was pulling her upwards still, grabbing hold of her urgently and fiercely and pulling her to him, cradling her against him as his brother had much earlier that evening. "Gróa...Gróa's gone, Robin. Hush."

Robin's brain, overloaded as it was, barely registered her face pressing against the bare skin of the space between Amon's shoulder and neck. "She was talking to me! She told me—she told me—"

Amon's arms tightened around her, his beard scratching at her forehead roughly. "Hush, Robin. Calm down. It was just a nightmare. I can't understand what you're saying when you're crying like this."

She cried for a while longer before she could finally try to reign in her emotions and be coherent. Her body was rocking back and forth and Robin realized that it was because _Amon_ was rocking back and forth slightly, trying to calm her as one would try to calm a small child. "I—I don't know if it was a dream," she finally stuttered out with clogged sinuses. "I was in the house again—" Pausing to collect her breath, Robin wiped at her eyes and nose. "—Gróa's house. The bodies...the bodies were there, like Nagira hadn't moved them...and they were...they were..."

Creaking and swinging; the sounds of an opening door filled the room, and the lights in the room flared to life. Squinting against the sudden intrusion of light—no matter how dim it was—Robin spotted the sleep-rumpled form of Nagira in the doorway. He likewise squinted and looked at the two figures frozen on the bed. "What the hell's going on? I heard Robin crying."

"Nightmare," Amon said simply, tersely. "I've got it."

"Okay. Sorry. Wanted to make sure everything was okay." Nagira exited the room as quickly as he had entered, turning out the light as he went. The darkness seemed much deeper and more oppressive than it had before in the absence of light.

"...they were rotting," Robin continued in a whisper, as if she'd never been interrupted at all. "And there were bugs and flies everywhere and the house stank horribly and I heard Gróa _talking_ to me. And it was awful because it was as if her voice was in my head and everywhere and I couldn't get away from it even if I tried." A shudder ran through Robin as she recounted the conversation-dream, like she was there in the frozen house in Iceland all over again. "She told me to come into her room, and I did...and she was _dead_, Amon, bloody and rotten and falling apart..."

Words were cut off as Amon squeezed her tightly, held her against him more securely. "None of that was real, Robin. It was all just a dream. It's been a long, strange day, you are probably over tired; your mind was reacting to stress in an adverse way."

Blonde head shaking negatively, Robin frowned. "No, no, no. This felt more _real_ than a dream. She spoke to me...she told me things. She told me that Sigrún's child would die." Here, Amon made a sound as if he wanted to interject and interrupt her, but Robin paid it no mind and went on, her voice increasing in volume gradually, threatening to crescendo into hysterics. "She told me I needed to be stronger than I was. She told me that all her life people had forgotten about her and tried to forget her, and that she couldn't forgive and forget and that's why she couldn't get to see her Gods. And she told me to thank you for what you did—"

"Robin, stop," Amon cut in, lowly. "It was just a _dream_."

"—and she told me that I was the only one who hadn't forgotten her and that's why she could talk to me and then she told me to ask you more about talking to her. She told me to ask you about your mother."

Silence.

"She told me to ask you about your mother's power, and you would explain." Amon's arms had slackened around her, or perhaps that was just her imagination. A split second later they tightened again and she found herself being drawn backwards, out of her control—being drawn by Amon to lie down against him, her face cradled in the crook of his neck.

"My mother may have been a witch, but she was also insane," he said into the darkness. "She said lots of things. She could _do _lots of things...in life and also in her head. She used to say that she could talk to the dead and that she did so all the time; when she was asleep, when she was awake, when she was in the middle of talking to me. It may have been true or it may have been a manifestation of her dementia. I'm not certain. I was very young." Amon released a gusting sigh. "You must have heard something about that from either me or Nagira at some point in time, and it must have worked its way into your dreams. As for Sigrún and her baby, that is just a product of your worried mind. You'd just mentioned earlier tonight that you thought she looked ill at dinner tonight. And everything else..." Amon trailed off. "...that was a bad night, for all of us. It doesn't shock me that you're having nightmares about it."

Robin tittered, still feeling uneasy and as if it hadn't been a dream. She was almost certain it hadn't been a dream. It'd been too incredibly real to have been a dream. Somehow, somewhere, she'd opened a door, and now it seemed all manner of things were to come spilling out of it. Pandora's Box had been opened, and now everything was swarming out.

_But hope, too, had been locked into Pandora's Box,_ a tiny voice in her mind reminded her.

Amon began to tug at his covers, moving them down. Robin shifted, startled. "Get under the blankets," he said, simply. "This house is freezing cold." Wordlessly, Robin assisted in moving and lifting the covers, and slid under them, finding herself enveloped in Amon's arms once again. "Try to remember that it was just a dream. You are here now. You've left it behind. The past cannot catch up with you unless you allow it to."

Robin lay frozen against her ex-partner's side, nervous and startled and comfortable about the whole situation.

"Try to get some sleep, as well," he said quietly. "Tomorrow we meet with Trygve and some of his fellows about how we're going to approach this so-called committee. Tomorrow is a big day of plans. You're going to need to be well-rested and able to think."

"Okay." Robin's body began to relax incrementally against that of Amon's, a sliver of her brain chattering on excitedly about lying there in his bed next to him so nonchalantly, as if it were nothing or an everyday occurrence.

"And I'm quite certain that you are probably not familiar with this quote, but an old Hollywood movie tells us 'after all, tomorrow is another day'."

................

AFTERWARD: hi. It's me. BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. Fuckall, I can't help it. I'm a sucker for dialogue. This might be, quite possibly, the slowest-moving WHR fanfic in the history of the universe. Evar. Character development and relationship fluff, whee!

Oh, and bits of rotting flesh too. Zombies. Well, maybe not zombies. Undead-in-limbo-spurned-Icelandic-women-corpses. Hee.

It's 3 am and I should be in bed.


	17. Summer

"_I am a stranger to you as you are to yourself."_ - Smashing Pumpkins, "Blue Skies Bring Tears"

_"Now you've gone and done it! I hope you're happy in the county penitentiary--it serves you right, for kissing little girls_

_But I'll visit, if you miss me"_ - The Dresden Dolls, "Missed Me"

_"So turn around and run back where you're from/you can't get on/don't shake those hips don't bite those lips/just keep it hid"_ - The Jesus and Mary Chain, "Between Planets"

_"there are few good men--ask yourself--is he one of them?--the deadliest of sin is pride--makes you think that you're always right--but there are always two sides--it takes two to make love--two to make a life" - _Massive Attack, "Special Cases"

............................

Robin had woken up alone, in someone else's bed. And she wasn't sure why, but it had put her in an utterly foul mood. Amon had evidently awoken before she had and instead of waking her up or saying good morning or _anything_ he'd left and henceforth, she hadn't seen him all day. Robin really wasn't sure why it had put her in such a foul mood, but it had, and she'd agreed petulantly to go with a wan, ill-looking Sigrún into the city of Copenhagen for some clothing shopping. She knew that Amon would definitely not have agreed with the idea of Robin traipsing off by herself with a semi-stranger, and even though she didn't feel much like going out or doing anything, Robin figured that secretly irking Amon was the reason why she'd agreed.

A fragment of her had been offended, unnecessarily, when halfway to Cophenhagen proper Sigrún informed Robin that the clothing expedition was to be for _her_. Instead of voicing said opinion, Robin bit her tongue and kept the disgruntled remark within. Apparently her clothes were too quiet, too meek—in preparation for inevitably meeting the committee and meeting other, fellow witches, Robin needed to be able to give off an air of competency; of cool, calm, collectedness.

"Clothes make the woman," Sigrún had commented to Robin, in the back of the Checker Marathon, dabbing lightly at some sweat on her forehead. "This is not to say, Robin, that there is anything wrong with your current clothing. It would just be better to look a bit more businesslike, more...mature."

Robin had not replied.

She allowed the older woman to drag her from store to store, boutique to boutique, and at one point even agreed to have some measurements taken. Robin wasn't sure what for, but Sigrún had insisted that it was always good to have at least one clothing-maker who had your measurements in case you needed something made for you on the fly. The numbers of Robin's measurements depressed her, like a numerical reinforcement that she needed to be more _mature_.

Shaking herself out of her angry, depressed haze, Robin remembered to thank Sigrún for the clothes she'd just purchased, even if Robin hadn't really desired them at all. The bags sitting on the floorboards of the Checker only served to remind Robin that she was so, so far away from being that which was almost _required _of her to assume the role of the Eve of Witches.

How much more mature did she need to be? A part of her brain, evil, insinuating and sly, reminded her that she _had_ woken up alone in a man's bed that morning. _That's pretty mature_, the dark part of her brain whispered.

Back at the house, sitting in the bathtub, Robin had plenty of time to mull over these things. Her immature clothes, her sweater and her long, flowing reddish-ochre skirt lay in a heap on the black and white tiled floor. She slumped in the claw-footed bathtub like a tired, aging monarch on his throne. Her toes, on the other side of the bath, just barely poking above the waterline, wiggled slightly.

She didn't like feeling this way. She imagined that this must have been how Amon felt frequently; irritated and somehow sad, and very, very reclusive. To him, it must have felt normal. To Robin, it felt like a fifty-ton weight sitting right on top of her blonde head, threatening with single movement she made to snap her neck and let all the anger and sadness come spilling out her broken-open body, smothering anyone who happened to be standing nearby.

The silence of the bathroom was broken by a knock at the door, loud and purposeful, meant to startle her. She sat up above the waterline, figuring it would be Amon having come to lecture her about something. Instead, his brother's voice came through the door.

"Hey, kiddo. You drowning in there or something?" he called through the heavy wooden door, and Robin blinked.

"No, just taking a bath," she called back, twisting some towards the door, feeling the cool porcelain against her almost-just-as-white skin.

"Well, close the curtain. I'm coming in," Nagira's voice replied. Robin reached over and grabbed the dark green shower curtain, and pulled it around the bathtub, shrouding her little watery-white world in a dark green haze. The sound of the water around her was muffled by the fabric and echoing. Exactly five seconds later, the door opened and she heard the sound of Nagira's expensive dress shoes on the old tiled floor. "I hope I'm not disturbing the Queen in her bath?" he asked, closing the door behind him.

Robin found that Nagira was the one person she felt she could tolerate at the moment, even if deep inside she'd roiled at the Queen remark given her current disposition. "No."

She heard him pulling up a footstool and seating himself upon it, his familiar scent of expensive, rich cologne and spent cigarettes wafting to her through the shower curtain. There was another, unfamiliar scent there with him. "I brought you a cup of coffee. Black, just like you like it. Here you go," he said, and Robin took the cue and stuck one white arm out to blindly accept the mug and bring it through the curtain into her dim, green, little world.

"Thank you," she said, suddenly grateful. She was certainly more grateful for the coffee than she was for the new wardrobe she'd gotten, or the empty comfort in waking up to discover one's self alone in a foreign bed. "It smells great," she commented, taking a tentative sip. "Thanks."

"So I heard you went shopping earlier," Nagira said, conversationally. It sounded like a lead into something bigger, a conversation with a purpose. "Did you have a bunch of other clothes that were too big for you too, or what?" he asked her, referring to the winter coat that she'd sported before he'd dragged her out and bought her a new one. Behind the curtain, Robin allowed herself a frown.

"No," she began, slowly. "I guess...my clothes were too...childish."

A pause. "Childish?" Nagira asked, confusion evident in his voice. "How so?"

Robin shrugged, drinking from her coffee. "I'm not sure. Sigrún took me clothing shopping for some new clothes so I would make a better impression on all the people I will meet. I..." Robin felt guilty at the seething tide of mysterious anger within her. "...she was just trying to help me. I suppose that I am going to need to look more professional and businesslike when I meet people, instead of looking like..."

"Well," Nagira sighed, "I suppose I could understand where Sigrún's coming from, a little. You didn't dress _childishly_ before, Robin, you just dressed like _you_. You dressed like a girl who was raised in a convent, all dark colours and long things that would cover you up. There's nothing wrong with that, you know. I think it's better than you running around dressed like all the other girls your age nowadays—somehow I can't picture you in a skirt that barely covers your ass."

Robin squirmed a bit in embarrassment at the very _thought_ of herself in such a garment. "You're right. I just..."

Nagira chuckled a bit. "It's okay, kid. I understand. It never feels good to have someone insult your fashion sense, I know. You know how much crap I catch for wearing that big old coat of mine?" he asked, and Robin's mouth turned into a smile against her will, thinking of Nagira's trademark white coat. "It used to really bother me. I even stopped wearing it for a while, but then...I realized that I _liked_ wearing it, so I started again. I may have to dress professionally for my job, but I'll be damned if I stop wearing that coat. You might have to dress up a bit from time to time, for stupid people who only judge each other by their appearances, but it's not going to change _you _any." The familiar crinkle of a pack of cigarettes was heard. "Besides, who knows? If you cut the right figure in a pencil skirt, I might just end up firing Mika when I get back to Japan and hire _you_ as my new secretary."

Robin was giggling then. Just as somehow Amon could manage to make Robin feel sad no matter what mood she was in, Nagira managed to make her feel cheerful no matter what mood she was in. "I _did_ get a couple of those skirts. Sigrún said they looked good on me and I liked them because they're not so short."

"Great!" Nagira enthused, and she heard him lighting his cigarette. "You know, there's a saying: a pretty woman can look pretty in whatever she wears. Some women dress themselves up in tight clothes, short clothes, all just to try to look pretty—women can look pretty even when they're not showing all their skin, you know."

Robin blushed. "I...you're not supposed to smoke in here, you know," she said, quietly. Nagira scoffed.

"Bah. The steam will get rid of the smell," he dismissed. "You can always get away with smoking in a bathroom, kid."

Looking down at the mug of dark liquid in her hands, Robin bit her lip and shifted in the water. "...Can I have one, then?" she asked hesitantly. Nagira was laughing, then, and she heard the crinkling of a cigarette pack once more.

"Sure," he agreed. Robin stuck her hand out from the curtain and felt a cigarette being placed into her hands. She drew it into the bathtub world to find it already lit. Coffee in one hand and cigarette in the other, Robin felt kind of silly sitting there in the bathtub, but she felt the most cheered that she had all day long. She felt like one of the characters that she'd seen on various television shows across Europe—sitting in quiet reflection with her coffee and her cigarettes.

"So did you sleep okay last night?" Nagira asked then, and Robin felt some of her disgruntlement coming back. "We don't have to talk about the nightmare if you don't wanna—I'm just wondering if you managed to get back to sleep okay."

"Yes," Robin said, her voice sounding cool and detached even to _her_.

There was a heavy silence from Nagira's side of the curtain. Then, a sigh. "What'd he do?" he asked, sounding as if he should have known better. "I shoulda known there was a reason Amon would have asked me to come check on you. What'd that oaf do _now_?"

A funny feeling formed in her stomach at the concept of Amon asking Nagira to come check on her. Her mind tried to picture Amon expressing concern about her to someone else—someone besides _her_—and it was almost impossible to conjure. Robin took a small puff of her cigarette before she replied. "Nothing, really. I just...never mind. It's silly. I don't know why it bothers me. I think I'm just tired and under a lot of stress."

Her comment was met with silence from Nagira's side of the curtain. Obviously he wasn't buying her story.

"...I woke up alone," she said in a small voice. The words had been forced out of her by the leaning of Nagira's disbelieving silence. "It felt so...strange. I felt...abandoned. I wish he would have at least just woken me up and sent me back to my own room or something." She shook her head, mostly at herself. "It's completely foolish, I know. And then I was already kind of in a rotten mood when Sigrún took me out, and I wasn't even very grateful when I told her thank you for buying me all those clothes...after she spent all that money on me, I couldn't even bring myself to give her a sincere thank you." Robin sighed heavily, disturbing the enclosed smoky air in front of her. "I don't know what's wrong with me today, Nagira. I'm certainly not looking forward to having people over here tonight. That's not my decision to make; it's Sigrún and Trygve's, since it is their house, but they're all coming over because of me and I...I just don't know if I can do it."

"Do what?" Nagira asked, gently.

"Be what they want me to be," she said, after a moment's reflection. "Everyone is expecting me to be this big, impressive _woman_ who dresses a certain way and acts a certain way; certainly not one who dresses like a...convent girl, and who has nightmares still, and gets upset when she wakes up in the morning alone, like a spoiled little—"

"Hey, kid," Nagira said, cutting right into the middle of her words. "I'm not gonna tell you what to do, okay? You've obviously had enough of that lately, and obviously had enough of everyone either purposefully or accidentally placing all their expectations on you, so I'm not going to do that either. You don't _have_ to do anything, Robin." He paused for emphasis, allowing Robin to think. "People _want_ you to do certain things, but you know...if you don't want to do those things, or it makes you upset to do them...then fuck 'em. Tell those people to get bent. Your responsibility is to yourself, first and foremost. Just because you're the Eve of Witches doesn't mean you have to change overnight, even if people wish you would or want you to or whatever. You're allowed to have bad days, too, you know." There was a gap in conversation filled by the sounds of coffee-sipping, water moving, and cigarette smoking. "Just do whatever feels right to you. You don't have to impress anyone, Robin. People will come around in time, and they'll respond better to you being yourself than to anything else."

She could hear him standing, his dress shoes grinding against the tile. "Look, I'll leave you be and let you have your coffee and your bath. I'll go let Amon know that you haven't drowned or anything. But think about what I said, you know? If you want to talk more about it later, then come find me."

The clicking of his shoes heading away, then, sounding polished and efficient on the tile. "And listen—I think you're doing a good job, just the way you are." The door opened and closed and Robin waited a few seconds before opening the shower curtain, sliding it along its oval-shaped path to bunch in the corner. Light flooded back into her bathtub world, and she sighed, sinking back into the water. Flakes of cigarette ash fell into the bath water with a quickly drenched hiss.

_Half of power is making people think you have it. People will come around in time._ Her mind swam with advice, just as the bathroom air swam with steam and cigarette smoke.

............

The parlor, with its giant overstuffed chairs and selection of interesting books, was quickly becoming Nagira's favourite hangout since he could smoke in there. "She's fine—just taking a bath. You know how long she can be at that, sometimes." His brother came up and sat down in the open chair next to Amon's, an overstuffed leather affair that was facing an unlit fireplace. The parlor was cold and grey, and eerily silent. "So what was _that_ all about, last night? I open the door and turn on the light and you're rocking Robin like she's a baby or something."

Sighing, Amon knew deep inside that he should have expected Nagira to grill him for details in the morning instead of just letting sleeping dogs lie. "She came rushing into my room in the middle of the night, bawling—not to mention startling the hell out of me—and threw herself onto my bed. She startled me so badly that I actually sat bolt upright, grabbed my gun, cocked it and pointed it at her." He frowned, sighing. "Didn't seem to faze her a bit."

The room was still and chilly, and Nagira's cigarette smoke spiraled off, unrivaled by airflow, into eternity. "Time to switch to decaf, buddy. Be more careful! You could have blown Robin's head off." Amon set his copy of H.P. Lovecraft down on the small table between the chairs, rubbing his eyes.

Amon shot the lawyer a warning look after having rubbed his eyes for some time. "I would not have. I don't fire at something until I know what it is. I am _not_ that trigger happy or that green. Give me a bit of credit."

Nagira let it slide, eyeing his cigarette as he rolled it between his fingers. "So what was little Robin's hellish nightmare about? Must've been pretty bad if it sent her flying into your bed. The witch world?"

"No." Amon rubbed at a spot behind his ear and then folded his hands in his lap, slouching down in the chair some. "It was about the night at Gróa's house. She was talking all kinds of frightened, nightmarish nonsense. Gróa's corpse was talking to her, there were rotting bodies lying around, and that Gróa's corpse was trying to tell her something about the future." He looked over to catch Nagira looking at him with an eyebrow raised, and Amon tendered a small shrug. "Don't look at me. Typical post-traumatic-stress reactions, I think."

"Hell of a dream," the smoking man said after a moment, appreciatively. "Probably would have scared the bejeesus out of _me_." He looked to Amon again, who was staring at the unlit fireplace in thought. "What kind of things about the future was our poor Gróa trying to communicate to Robin?"

Amon shook his head dismissively, staring into the cold fireplace with narrowed eyes. "Typical nightmare fare, it seems. Robin is now convinced that Sigrún is going to miscarry because Gróa told her that it would happen, in the dream."

Nagira let out a whistle. "Oh _that's_ lovely," he commented. Then he paused. Amon knew which direction the conversation was going to turn, immediately. "So you let her cry her little eyes out and then you took her back to bed and tucked her in and told her to have sweet dreams, right?"

Amon frowned. "Sure."

"Liar." Nagira looked over with a grin at his brother, whose mood was darkening almost _audibly_. "So she _didn't_ sleep in your bed last night?"

The frown intensified. "No."

Nagira actually let out a laugh then, his head rolling back. After his laughter he remained looking up at the elaborate molded ceiling with a smile. "Fuck, Amon, remember who you're _talking_ to here. I saw through your lies when you were still lying to me about whether or not you'd been spitting out the parts of your dinner you didn't like into your glass of milk. I saw through your lies when you were still trying to tell me that _no_, as a matter of fact, it _hadn't_ been chocolate-fingered _chibi_ you who ate the last box of Pocky." He started laughing again, taking a drag of his cigarette.

By then somehow infinitely irritated, Amon slouched down further in his seat and looked over to Nagira with a severely heinous frown on his face. "She had a nightmare, Syunji. Of course she slept in my bed. She was terrified. It isn't as if I lured her in there and _molested_ her." He rubbed his face. "Jesus."

"Why'd you try to lie about it, then?" Nagira asked, grinning like the Cheshire Cat personified. He pointed at Amon daringly. "_You've_ got a guilty conscience. Oh, and by the way, way to go on the emotional one-night-stand. You're a big boy, Amon, I shouldn't have to tell you how much any woman—be it one you're screwing or Robin—hates to wake up alone."

Amon sat up then, hands on the arms of his chair, face leaning into Nagira's. "Do you really want to know why I lied about it?" he growled at his brother, who smiled back at him unflinchingly.

"Try me," said the older brother, casually taking a drag from his cigarette.

"I am _through_ with you sneaking around, snidely questioning my _every_ move around Robin. I am not some kind of predator, Syunji. I am just trying to be the best protector and companion to that girl that I can be and more often than not I fail, and this I know. My job is _not_ made any easier by a jackass like you taunting me about my actions every five seconds." Amon remained in his brother's face, staring him down intensely. His teeth were locked and threatening to start grinding.

"Wanna know what else isn't making your job any easier?" Nagira asked, leaning in even closer in a conspiring manner. Amon narrowed his eyes at the smoking man.

"Please, enlighten me," he quipped in an unenthusiastic monotone, under his breath.

"The fact that your job isn't made any easier by the fact that you're mad fucking in love with that girl, and it's really hard to be a detached protector and companion when half the time you're probably having schoolboy fantasies about her." He grinned, watching the dark look on Amon's face shift into pure murder. "And the reason my teasing gets to you so goddamned bad is because you, like I said, have the worst guilty conscience I have ever seen." Nagira leaned back, resettling into his chair comfortably. He put his cigarette out in a crystal ashtray on the table between them. Amon had not moved an inch, but his tense with anger and poised position seemed not to threaten Nagira in the least. "You're just lucky Robin's so bloody clueless, you know. I don't know how she can _still_ be so clueless as to what you're so-calledly 'hiding' after all this time, but methinks it's got a whole lot to do with the fact that you've worked so hard at convincing her that you regard her about as much as a dog regards a flea." Snickering, Nagira dispelled the last of his cigarette smoke from his lungs. "And you really earn points by being balls-less enough to get _me_ to go up there and check on her, you know."

Silence passed on for a few moments, and Nagira looked over to his brother, whom had still not moved from his tense, defensive position in his chair. "Oh, for God's sake, sit back and relax," Nagira groaned flippantly, waving his hand at Amon. "You know, for once in your life you don't have some quick and snippy little logical retort to feed to me and maybe that's good. Why don't you just sit there and keep your mouth shut and just _think_ for a while, buddy? You should try that more often—more thinking, less being a jerk."

Amon's pulse was thudding angrily in his ears and after a few murderous moments, he slowly leaned back into his chair, staring at Nagira all the while. His hand still gripped the arm of the chair tightly, knuckles turning white with the effort.

What made him angrier? Being utterly schooled in argument by his brother or being nailed on so many points so unabashedly?

Amon couldn't decide. And, inadvertently following his brother's snide advice, he shut his mouth and sat there and thought—alternating with brooding—about it.

As Amon sat in petulant thought, Nagira picked up the book off the chair's armrest and snickered at it. "Heh. Lovecraft. It figures you'd be reading weird shit like this."

.........

Looking at herself in the mirror, Robin barely recognized what she saw before her. Surely this was a prettier, worldlier, more _mature_ girl in the mirror. It was amazing what a new change of clothes could do—and dressed up in this _costume_, being this-Robin-but-not-Robin, she actually felt more of the part. Guilt ate at her insides for only half-heartedly thanking Sigrún that morning for the clothing expedition.

Being the Eve of Witches somehow seemed easier in a smart skirt.

Was this vanity or pride, the thing she was experiencing? She furrowed her brow, thinking about it. No, it couldn't have been—it just felt like she was wearing a superhero's outfit, or something of the like. She'd gone into the bathroom a normal fifteen year old girl—utterly Robin—and had come out looking like a woman who knew what she was doing.

For the most part, anyway. Robin eyed the shoes next to her warily, curling her toes up. Managing to walk in shoes with even a moderate heel proved to be difficult. Too difficult. Eventually she'd taken them off and decided that she'd settle for her good old Mary Janes; at least they wouldn't cause her to almost fall down or to nearly snap her ankle in half.

She tugged at the dark grey pencil skirt, straightening out invisible folds and creases, and readjusted her sweater—a three-quarter sleeve black affair with a wide neck that somehow seemed elegant despite being a normal sweater. Robin _felt_ elegant, and realized how silly it was to feel that way, seeing as how this was how most normal women dressed on a day to day basis.

A heavy sigh worked its way out of Robin's lungs, ruffling the choppy reddish-blonde hair around her face.

"You look very nice," a voice at the door suddenly said. Robin turned from the mirror so quickly she almost snapped, her hand flying to her heart. A bright red-haired girl—was it even _possible_ for people to have hair that red?—was standing in the doorway to Robin's room, dressed all black. The redhead covered her mouth with a hand, freckled face looking apologetic. "I'm sorry, Miss Robin. I shouldn't have startled you so."

The beating of Robin's heart began to slow down to normal again, and she sighed. "That's fine. Um..." Her toes curled again. "Who...are you?"

The redhead grinned. "My name is Beatrix. I am one of the maids of the house." She indicated a small pile of clothes by Robin's bed, an accumulation of dirty clothing that Robin had been hauling around with her on the train trip. "Would you like me to launder your things for you?"

Instant refusal prickled at Robin's tongue. She'd never had anyone do her laundry for her. It didn't seem right to make someone else wash your own dirty clothes. "Um..."

Beatrix didn't wait for a reply, strolling into the room to gather the small pile of clothes into her arms. "Are there any special care instructions for any of these garments?" The girl spoke English accentedly and awkwardly, making it obvious that she'd learned it as a second language. "No? Well. I will have them washed and returned to you by this evening. Is your room to your liking?"

Robin was a bit flustered. It felt bizarre to have someone suddenly pop into your life with the sole purpose of cleaning up after you and tending to your needs. It was definitely not something Robin was used to at all. "It's, um..."

"So you are the Eve of Witches?" Beatrix fairly gushed out, over her armful of dirty clothes. "We have all heard so much about you. You and your caretaker...Mr. Amon?"

Robin nodded carefully. "Yes. We've, um..."

Cradling Robin's clothes with one arm, Beatrix flicked an invisible speck of _something_ from Robin's bedcovers and then smoothed the spot she'd flicked. "He is very private, yes? He refused to let me launder his clothing. I hope he wasn't offended by me. He seemed startled to see me in his room, cleaning up."

"Oh." Robin's eyes slid to the door that connected her room and Amon's, and she imagined him sitting in his room listening to the semi-conversation between the excited maid and Robin and rolling his eyes. "Yes. Er. Well. I'm not certain if he was offended or not. He usually doesn't like to be called 'Mr.', though. And...you don't have to call me 'Miss', either."

"I understand. It makes both of you feel old, yes? Sigrún and Trygve say the same thing." Heading for the door, the talkative Beatrix noticed an errant sweater balled up on a chair in the corner of the room. She looked at it for a moment and then made a little noise of thought. "I'll just launder that as well," she informed Robin, pointing at the sweater.

Then it flew from the chair into her open, waiting hand.

"Goodbye!" she called over her shoulder, to Robin, as she exited the room. Robin blinked, trying to remember what exactly she'd been doing before Beatrix had come bouncing into her life unceremoniously. Unfortunately, her mind was too busy trying to figure out what in the world had just happened.

........

"Kid. Kid!" Robin opened her eyes to find Nagira shaking her shoulder determinedly, hovering over her. "Wake up, Robin! You're missing your own party!"

Rubbing her sleep-cluttered eyes and sitting up slowly with Nagira's help, Robin looked around her room vapidly. "How long did I sleep for?" she asked curiously, and Nagira tendered a shrug.

"Dunno. I don't know when you fell asleep. But hey, you're missing the party!" Robin looked at him with squinted, confused eyes, and adjusted the neck of her sweater, pulling it back up over one of her shoulders. He poked her, slightly. "Coven, coming over? Remember? Coven, coming over to see _you_?" Nagira stepped back with a bemused look on his face as Robin's eyes widened dramatically and she practically sprang off her bed, suddenly fully awake.

"Oh," she sighed in annoyance—mostly with herself. "I've been asleep for hours! How long has—"

Nagira looked at her with a grin, sticking his hands into the pockets of his slacks, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Only about forty-five minutes. Everyone's been wondering where you are, though. Amon's probably shitting a brick right now, seeing as how I snuck away and left him alone with all the strangers to come find you."

Robin rushed around her room, hunting in vain for her shoes. Crawling around on her hands and knees near her bed, looking for said absent shoes, she made a little noise of frustration. "This is the worst first impression ever, Nagira! How could I have fallen asleep for this long?" she moaned, sounding mortified. The lawyer couldn't help but chuckle at Robin's flustered state.

"Growing girls need their sleep, I guess," Nagira surmised. "Don't worry, it isn't as bad as I made it out to be. Everyone's just starting to settle in and get drinks and stuff so I don't think anyone's really noticed that the guest of honour is mysteriously absent. There's just a lot of elbow rubbing going on down there right now. No one's even noticed you're not there." He watched Robin, suddenly having located her shoes, sit down on the floor unceremoniously in her somewhat restrictive skirt and start to fasten the buckles on her Mary Janes. "Oh, and Robin?" he asked suddenly, causing her took look up from her shoe-donning, hurriedly.

"You might want to brush your hair before you come downstairs," he suggested, amusement quietly lurking in his voice. "It's a bit..." He made some motions around his own head, and Robin's hands flew to her hair immediately, feeling it sticking up in a few locations from sleep.

In a flash Robin was digging through her bag, more little noises of frustration coming from behind the mussed curtain of red-blonde hair.

Nagira couldn't help but laugh outright, then, at the whole situation.

..........

Amon was staring. He hadn't seen Robin all day long, having partially been avoiding her due to inherent awkwardness at once again having woken up, sharing a bed with her. The last time he'd seen her was that morning as he left his room—a quietly slumbering Robin curled up in blankets hadn't even noticed his departure. Amon hadn't slept too well the night before, for obvious reasons. One was that his brain was too busy working over the implications and opportunities of having Robin sleeping against his side, and another was that whenever he did finally fall asleep, Robin's movements in sleep would occasionally jar him awake again. It'd been a while since Amon had actually _shared_ a bed with someone, not just slept on the completely opposite side of it, drunkenly.

He couldn't stop staring. He'd left a sleeping, un-intimidating Robin in his bed that morning, feeling like an ass for sneaking away but not really knowing what else to do; because he knew that if he stood there for long enough looking at her as she slept, he was going to end up crawling back into the bed and laying down next to her.

The Robin he'd left sleeping in his bed that morning seemed somehow different than the one coming down the stairs with his brother. The Robin that was coming down the stairs didn't look like a girl who'd be left sleeping peacefully in some asshole's bed—she looked like a girl who'd be busy dragging said asshole _back_ to bed, only to release him when she saw fit.

Amon's mind chastised him for staring so wantonly, for letting the darker parts of his mind run away with themselves so rampantly at the sight of Robin in clothing that made her female enough to be dangerous. He watched Trygve ascend the curving stair to meet Nagira and Robin halfway, mouths moving, smiles being shared. The trio descended the stairs and melded into the small crowd, presumably to start making the rounds—_Hi, hello, how are you, this is mankind's genetically-constructed alpha witch...we don't usually call her that, though, she usually goes by Robin—and if we'd had any idea that she was going to cut this figure in a tight skirt, we probably wouldn't ever let her out of her room. _Amon found himself searching for the blonde head of Trygve and the dark head of his brother in the crowd, searching for Robin's whereabouts. _This man dressed like a high income pimp is Nagira, one of her errant caretakers—yes, the alpha witch still needs caretakers!—and the frightening, murderous-looking man over there in the corner is her other caretaker—that is, when he's not too busy trying to keep himself from committing statutory rape. _

Amon groaned, mentally. He needed a drink. _Badly_. This was already shaping up—mostly internally—to be one hell of an evening.

...........

Her hands wouldn't stop shaking, a fact she was desperately trying to hide. It was rather difficult to do so when she kept shaking other people's hands and having people kiss her own. If people noticed, they didn't seem to care. She had to remind herself that these were Trygve and Sigrún's people; these were the people who already believed in her and her power. These were the people who already supported her, not people she needed to convince.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to appear at least _somewhat_ collected, and not like a terrified girl. Graciously, Nagira stuck by her side through the swarms of people waiting to meet her, drinks in hand, children in hand, smiling faces—Nagira had disappeared from her side momentarily but returned with a glass, which he promptly placed into Robin's confused, shaking hand.

"Wine," he said, matter-of-factly. "Drink it up. Makes socializing a _hell_ of a lot easier." Unsurely, Robin took a sip of her wine, and moved along with Nagira and Trygve to the next small group of people eagerly awaiting their meeting with the Eve.

The faces started to blur after a while, too many eager people with too many eager words. Robin wasn't used to this sort of treatment; her days at the convent had been spent as one small face among many, her days with SOLOMON had been spent as one person in an endless army. Her first meeting with the STN-J had not been the most welcoming and warm meeting ever, and even her first meeting with Nagira hadn't been all that comforting. This was perhaps one of the first times in Robin's life that she could remember feeling like the _center of attention_, and it made her distinctly uncomfortable and itchy in her own skin, like it was a costume from a weird play that she couldn't wait to shrug off.

One glass of wine down, a refill from Nagira. He was right. Talking got a lot easier after the first glass. After the second glass, Robin didn't need Nagira and Trygve anymore, and she was wandering around on her own, chatting with other witches as if she'd known them all her life. Some of them didn't speak English; none of them spoke Japanese—in some cases, she used her knowledge of Italian, Spanish, and French to get along. They were from all over, all walks of life, all ages—some poor, some rich, some cultured, some working-class, some fledgling talents, some well-honed weapons of the Craft.

They were her people. And they were eager to see her. They shared with her all of the tall tales they'd heard of her and Amon and their experiences in Japan, their life on the run. Some of them made Robin laugh outright, some of them had a grain of truth to them. She eagerly gleaned all the information from her conversations that she could, trying hard to remember people's names, where they came from, who they knew; all while she drank her wine and tried to act mature and confident, playing with people's children and complimenting people on their clothing, their smiles, their polite nature. Robin thanked them for their support, their faith; once, goaded on by a boy who looked to be slightly older than she was, she reached _out_ with her mind, through the witch world, and searched through the room for a few minutes until she found him, brushing her presence against his mind comfortingly to his amazement.

Amon was still nowhere to be found. At first it had pained her severely that she hadn't seen him all day, that he'd been avoiding her, but the more that she talked with the extensive members of the coven and the more wine she drank, the less and less she cared that Amon was mysteriously absent from her side. She'd tried to find him by reaching out, but it seemed to become increasingly difficult to focus the more wine she drank, and soon all the glows began to look the same, not even Amon's distinctive glow discernable.

There were men in the parlor, drinking cognac and smoking cigars and cigarettes, and Robin eventually wandered in, a poppy stuck behind her ear and one in her hair, given to her by a man from Hungary whose Craft was the power to control water. The smoke stung at her eyes momentarily, rolling at her in clouds like fog, but she steeled herself and continued in, feeling a bit blurry and kind of warm. Spying Nagira out of the corner of her eye, she wandered over to him and sat down on the arm of his chair, smiling at him in a supremely pleasant manner.

"Robin's come to join the men for drinks and cigars!" he said with a laugh, giving her leg a pat. He studied her for a moment, and a sly, creeping smile came over his face. "Want some more wine?" he asked, and Robin murmured a glowing affirmative. Nagira disappeared for a few moments and then returned, a glass of wine in his hand. He handed it to Robin who took it gladly. "Do you realize that you're the only woman in here, kid?" Nagira asked her upon sitting back in his seat. Robin looked around suddenly, eyes wide.

"Am I...not supposed to be in here?" she asked suddenly, fearfully. Nagira laughed.

"Go wherever you want!" he said unapologetically, sipping some sort of amber liquid over ice from a glass. An ashtray next to him spoke of multiple spent cigarettes. "All these people are here to see _you_, anyway—it'd be pretty damn ridiculous if you couldn't go wherever you wanted," he said. Nagira indicated the man across from him, leaning closer to Robin to speak to her above the din of deep-voiced male conversation and booming male laughter. "This here is Finn, a cousin of Trygve's. Finn, this is Robin."

Robin turned green eyes to the man sitting in the chair across from Nagira. He was slightly dark skinned and dark-haired, with deep brown eyes. His arms were covered with sun-freckles, and he appeared to be tall and lanky. Robin furrowed her brow. "A cousin?" she asked.

"Through marriage," Finn replied. "Not by blood. Nice to meet you, Eve. Heard a lot about you, y'know."

The green eyes that had been scrutinizing the man blinked rapidly. "You're...you're an American!" Robin fairly burst out, her face registering shock. "I mean...you are an American, aren't you?" The man Finn nodded, and Robin smiled apologetically. "I am sorry. That was horribly rude of me to burst out with a question like that. It's good to meet you, Finn."

Nagira shrugged, lighting another cigarette and offering one to both Robin and Finn, who both accepted. "Go figure. An American named Finn. It's like a Chinese guy being named Swede or something like that." The man Finn laughed, lighting his cigarette with the lighter proffered by Nagira, and leaning back in his chair. Robin allowed Nagira to light her own cigarette, although she really didn't have much interest in smoking it. As a result, it ended more or less just burning away in her hand until she put it out halfway through the cigarette. Nagira said nothing.

"So you're gonna go up against the committee, huh?" Finn asked Robin, narrowing chocolate-hued eyes at her through a cloud of cigarette smoke. Robin suddenly noticed the abundance of sun freckles on his face, as well. She gave him a skeptical little look.

"I hope to befriend them, actually," Robin said, and the only response she got from the American was a quiet chuckle. She felt the urge to frown but suppressed it and looked at him brightly, changing the subject. "So you're from America—where in America?"

He grinned at her. "A lovely little place called New Mexico. Ever heard of it?"

Robin nodded. "I've driven through it. There...wasn't much there."

"Exactly. That's why I'm not there anymore," Finn replied. "Mostly staying in England now, but Tryg's asked me to stick around here for a while. I guess he figures you guys could use the extra backup."

"Backup?" Robin asked, arching an eyebrow at him. "I'm not certain what you mean."

Finn chuckled again, sipping from his glass—which prompted Robin to do the same. "You know, a little extra muscle. Nagira here doesn't have a Craft, and from what I hear your so-called 'warden' is still a little dodgy with his, so...you know."

Something inside of Robin was bristling, perhaps at the man's underestimation of she and Amon's combined power, and of Nagira's competency despite his lack of a Craft. She also wondered if Trygve actually thought that it was _necessary_ for them to need extra support, if his faith in their power was really that tremulous. "It's kind of you to extend your help to us. We've been fine on our own, so far, but your support is welcome."

"Nagira here tells me you killed a man with your mind," Finn said, looking at Robin intently, "in Iceland. I'd heard before that you were just a fire Craft-user."

A glance was exchanged between Nagira and Robin and the girl took another drink from her wine glass before answering. "Well, yes. But since I gained the knowledge of the Arcanum of the Craft in Japan, my powers have been expanding." Robin smiled. "I can do a lot of things, now."

Nagira grinned up at her. "Like talking to babies?" Robin looked at him like an embarrassed child would look at a goofy parent, and Finn looked about the parlor they sat in, interestedly.

"And what of your fellow ex-Hunter friend?" he asked, arching a chestnut-coloured eyebrow. "I keep hearing all about him, but I haven't actually _met_ the guy all night."

Resisting the urge to bite her lip, Robin straightened up a bit, squaring her shoulders proudly. The affirmation of Amon's absence and that people noticed it gouged at her defenses. "Amon is...Amon is kind of a private person. He doesn't care for large crowds, really, and he usually prefers just to observe."

A noise like a scoff issued from Nagira. "What she means to say is that my brother is an anti-social bastard," he stated in deadpan, and Robin favoured him with a look that was almost pleading, silently asking him not to go so rough on his brother. "Come to think of it, he _has_ been unnecessarily dodgy tonight. Wonder where the kid's buggered off to?"

Similar thoughts had been running through the blonde girl's head all night, but she just hadn't been willing to admit it to herself, really. "He's got to be around somewhere. Amon wouldn't just disappear."

"I'd like to meet him, at some point. Y'know, considering that I'm going to be you guys' new housemate and all," the American supplemented, looking pointedly at Robin. She stared back at him, and sighed very, very slightly.

"I guess," she began, standing smoothly—almost _too_ smoothly, "I should go find him. Perhaps it would be good for him to talk to some people, meet some people..."

"Stop being such an anti-social bastard," the lawyer in the chair said under his breath, unmindful of the second pleading look Robin directed at him before turning away and striding out of the parlor, every step she took seeming too solid, as if the ground beneath her was made of rock. At the same time her body felt like rubber, bouncing with the effort of each step. Slipping her way through the witches, she was waylaid quite a few times by people talking to her or pointedly catching her attention, and it would have been extremely rude of her to just ignore them and keep walking—a bad impression, she knew. Still, even when engaged in sleep, green eyes scanned the room fervently, searching for a glimpse of a familiar black-garbed figure, a familiar stalking walk; ears listened for an echoic memory of a deep, intimidating voice, or perhaps a less familiar, startling laugh.

A flash of red at the corner of Robin's vision caught her eye and a soft hand at her elbow turned her round, mid-walk; she was facing Beatrix then, staring into the pale, too-freckled face. "Are you looking for something?"

"Someone," Robin corrected.

In one hand, Beatrix gripped three or four empty wine-glasses, and tendrils of her bright auburn hair were coming loose from their restraints. It must have been very busy for only two maids to help attend to all of these people, Robin surmised. "I may be able to assist you, then," the maid said. "Who are you looking for?"

Robin almost didn't want to say, as if it was giving something away. "I'm looking for Amon."

Something lit up in Beatrix's eyes, and she smiled. "Ah, Amon. He is in the music room, which is next to Mr. Trygve's office." She pointed off towards the other end of the main room and Robin followed the invisible line drawn by the other girl's finger. "Mrs. Sigrún wasn't feeling well, so we suggested that she sit down somewhere quiet for a while, and Amon and some others have gone along with her to keep her company."

Robin thanked the maid for her help and started off in the direction of the music room, whose existence she hadn't even known about. Keeping her head down and walking purposefully kept Robin from having to interact with anyone else along her way, and she walked down the small hallway towards the door next to the closed office door, which was open. Light poured out into the semi-darkened hallway and she paused just outside the door, looking around the corner almost shyly.

"Hello?" she called, even though she could plainly see the people in the room—Amon among one of them. He was sitting on a window seat next to Sigrún, some kind of glass in his hand, his eyes suddenly looking to the door. Sigrún looked up from whomever had been speaking at that moment and to the door, a smile creeping across her face.

"Come in," she beckoned, scooting over some, placing a space between herself and Amon. "Please, come, sit. You needn't ask to come in here."

Robin murmured a thanks and entered the room, seating herself between Sigrún and Amon, trying her hardest to not let any awkwardness or embarrassment show. Amon moved over a bit as she sat, to give her a bit more space—they'd been far too close before, all kind of meanings given out in the proximity. For the first time Robin looked at the two people sitting across from them, in chairs—an old man and a young girl who looked to be perhaps her own age, give or take a year or so. "Robin, this is Paolo," Amon said, indicating the old man, who smiled feebly at her "and this is Genevieve," he said, and the girl grinned sharkishly, adjusting herself in her seat. Robin got up briefly to exchange delicate cheek kisses with the old man, and then went to the girl to do the same, but was startled when Genevieve recoiled dramatically.

"Oh, don't," she said, her voice practically dripping with a dirty, quick Irish accent. "I've a bloody miserable cold and I can't imagine anyone with feck for a brain wantin' it."

Robin blinked at the girl's frank speech and sat back quietly, looking between the two sitting in front of her. "I'm Robin. I'm...the Eve of Witches."

The old man turned drooping brown eyes to her, squinting slightly. "So I have heard," he said, his time-worn voice speaking of Italian birth. "I'd hoped I'd get to meet you, my dear, before I died."

The girl in the chair next to him turned and looked at him with a disgustedly skeptical look, picking at her scarf around her neck. She looked like she'd just come fresh out of a youth hostel, wearing all the clothes she owned in the world—bohemian, possibly homeless, and uncaring. "Oh, shutup, you old feck. You're about as close to death as I am t' becomin' th' bloody Queen of England."

Robin was startled and even offended at the way the girl had just spoken to the harmless old man, but she became even more startled when the old man reached out and dealt the girl a severe whack on her mussy brown head, mumbling to himself. "Apprentices are good for nothing," he said to Robin. "Thanks be to Our Father in Heaven that the Eve of Witches is a good, clean, obedient girl," and he was speaking to Robin, but it was clear that he was directing his words towards Genevieve. "And not some sort of ragamuffin without a care for anything. Child, how are you ever going to learn to use your Craft properly if I can't even teach you how to follow social mores?"

Robin looked over to the Irish girl, who was busy rubbing at her head through her short, ruffled brown hair with a grimace on her face. "Oi, feck. Can I come t' live with _you_?" she asked, looking to Amon sourly. "At least the Eve of Witches doesn't have t' worry about bein' smacked on her gourd all th' damn time, and at least she can drink. I'd _kill_ for a feckin' pint right about now."

Amon simply shook his head at her, seemingly amused by the girl's crude behaviour. Sigrún turned to Robin. "Paolo has been taking apprentices for years, one at a time, and schooling them in how to properly control and use their Crafts—taking them out of situations in which they might have learned to use their gift for ill." She looked back to the old Italian man, smiling approvingly. "He seeks out young people with his own Craft—the power to be able to look into one's mind, the power of persuasion—and trains them on how to use it."

Genevieve looked over at Robin with a haughtily raised eyebrow. "'E's tryin' t' teach me how t' use it fer psychology 'n stuff like that." She rolled her eyes, exasperated. "I dunno why I agreed t' this whole bloody mess in th' first place. Me power was much more useful when I was usin' it t' convince idiots t' give me all th' money in their billfolds." Noticing Robin's shocked face and Amon's concealed smile, she grew defensive. "Oh, _what_? Jesu, don't look so bloody vexed. It wasn't as if I was hurtin' 'em or anything—mum an' da always spent all th' money on th' drink, an' I was _hungry_."

There was a moment of brief silence and Robin was compelled to say something, having never had parents of her own—not ones she could remember, anyway—and reflecting upon how horrible it must have been to have parents who didn't care about you. "I'm sorry," she said, sympathetically to the other girl. "That must have been terrible."

Genevieve looked at her with something akin to disdain, and slouched in her seat most inelegantly, looking at some point far off to the side. "Bah. Save yer sympathy fer someone who needs it more than me, Eve. Mum and da are bloody useless fecks, besides. I turned out alright enough fer meself, anyway."

There was more silence and it provoked discomfort in Robin, her words having felt cheap and stupid. She turned to Amon and felt even more discomfort at having to talk to him in the silence, around others. "Nagira is in the parlor, with someone he'd like you to meet," she said to him, lowly, as if maybe if she spoke quietly enough no one would notice her talking. "If you'd like to meet him later, then that's fine too..."

Amon looked at her fleetingly, taking a drink from his glass. He shook his head. "No. I'll meet him now." Amon stood, grabbing his jacket off the cushion as he did, managing to look sharp and clean in his suit despite the lack of the jacket. _Almost_ all black, a diversion from the usual—black slacks, black shirt, very dark reddish tie. "Sigrún, if you happen to need assistance and you can't find Trygve, you can come find me."

Sigrún looked up to the ex-Hunter, her blue eyes warm despite her tired face. "Thank you, Amon. I think I'll be fine, however. I'm just a little tired. It's been a busy day."

Grey eyes then turned to the distinguished old man and his less-distinguished ward. "Paolo, it was a pleasure to have met you. Genevieve, likewise. I trust I'll see you both again in the future?"

"God willing," Paolo replied, and Genevieve merely shrugged, looking mischievous.

Robin stood then too, leading Amon out of the music room, giving a glance at an idle violin as she passed through the door. Amon was behind her, the ice in his glass clinking with every step. She turned to him as they walked, and he looked at her. "Hi," she offered, kind of awkwardly. "I haven't seen you all day."

He looked back at her seriously. "I spent the day hanging upside down in hibernation."

Robin's eyes flicked to the glass in Amon's hand almost imperceptibly and she pondered how many of those little glasses he had drank to make him decidedly wise-cracking. "Oh," she murmured by way of reply to his odd comment. "Well, Nagira's in the parlor with a man named Finn who is a distant cousin of Trygve's. Trygve has asked Finn to stay here with us at the house for the time being, so it would be good for you to meet him. And he's curious about you."

Momentary emotions of _blah_ passed across Amon's normally placid face. "Of course. There's about five billion people here, none of whom I know or trust, and they're _all_ curious." Almost as if to reaffirm his words, Amon cast vaguely suspicious glances around the room at all the witches as he and Robin walked to the parlor doors.

"Is that why you've been so sparse all night?" she hazarded, eyeing her wine glass. Almost empty. "Because of the people?"

"Partially." It was a patented Amon-response, one that answered Robin's question but that insinuated that there was something else lurking beneath the surface, waiting to be dug for. At the door to the parlor he opened it, reaching around her to do so. He held it open for her and looked at her expectantly. "After you," he ushered, and she looked at him for a moment before entering, finding her way through the smoke and the men back to where she'd last left Nagira and the American Finn.

Surprises of surprises, they were still there, and the ashtray was now dangerously close to overflowing. Nagira had since switched to smoking a cigar that he'd procured from somewhere. At the sight of Robin and Amon drawing close, he looked over in theatrical shock. "Oh-ho! So you _did_ manage to drag him out from whatever rock he was hiding under!"he exclaimed, earning him a baleful look from Amon. Robin looked to the expectant Finn and put a small smile onto her face.

"Finn, this is Amon," she said, and Amon reached around her again—it was odd how unused to his presence hovering behind her she had become in his short absence—to shake Finn's extended hand.

Finn used a tanned hand to indicate two empty chairs near them. "Pull up a chair," he said jovially. "Sit down and get a refill. We had one of the maids just bring a bottle of wine and a bottle of cognac out here to sit by us." Robin and Amon went to said chairs and moved them a little closer to the two previously seated men, and they sat, Robin caught off guard as Nagira immediately began refilling her glass.

"So instead of socializing, you two are in here getting stinking drunk?" Amon asked of Finn with a raised eyebrow. The American man nodded and Amon considered it for a moment. Draining the rest of whatever was in his glass, he held it out to Nagira. "Refill," he said simply, and Nagira complied. "I'm not very good at socializing, anyway."

Idle small talk was made, with unusual success. Apparently Amon had already had quite a bit to drink, because he was relatively talkative and even _amusing_ and _cheerful_ at times. After a while Robin put her glass down on a table, thinking it perhaps wise that she didn't have any more wine. Her vision was starting to swim a bit, and she found herself laughing and even _giggling_ at things that ordinarily wouldn't have been funny enough to warrant a vocal response. A warm, fuzzy, distinctly gooey feeling was pervading her senses and her body, and she didn't know if it was entirely due to the alcohol she'd drank or whether it was partially the situation; surrounded almost entirely by witches, in her element, sitting with Nagira, Amon, and a strange new man, talking as if they were normal people and not planning hostile takeovers.

The unfamiliar feeling of normalcy was coursing through her body, just as it had on the day that she'd gone out in Iceland with Nagira. They'd been just two simple people out on a day excursion, not criminals by their very existence or beliefs. Here, Robin felt the same—laughing at a joke, unable to stop thinking that it was so _funny_ and looking over to find Amon laughing too. Her blurry vision locked on him laughing and after a second he looked over to notice her watching him laugh, and his laughter slowly faded down into a smile, an actual _smile_. A smile that held even as he looked at her and she looked at him, and her own smile refused to fade or diminish any in size or character.

This was a hallmark, a moment that had never occurred. For once she was pinned by his gaze, and it wasn't a searching, intimidating interaction. They were just smiling at each other, their smiles seeming to talk to each other—_hi. How are you? We don't get to see each other much, do we? _

Nagira chuckled. "Robin and Amon are communicating through telepathy." He tossed his pack of cigarettes at Amon, who looked down at them in part startled movement, part annoyance, and then opened the pack with his usual mask back on his face. Engrossed in the task of withdrawing a cigarette and lighting it, he either didn't notice or pretended not to notice Robin's flustered face at Nagira's teasing. Finn was laughing quietly, and Robin settled for looking at the floor, unsure of where else to look. A soft noise that might have been "meep" escaped from her lips.

Nagira leaned close to Amon, a snarky look on his face. "So, I'm interested to learn—how does one communicate through telepathy, anyway? What's it like?"

Amon looked over at his brother, seriously, and exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Firstly, one must pull their head out of their ass to communicate via the mind," he began authoritively, and this led to some assorted snickers and giggles from Robin (no matter how mortified she was, things were still damned funny) and Finn. "Secondly, after removing one's head from one's ass, one must ascertain that one actually _has_ a mind to engage in telepathy with. Have you done this?" Amon asked Nagira, sounding like a high school teacher giving a lecture in lab. Robin and Finn were outright laughing then. "Thirdly, if one has ascertained positively that there is at least _some_ kind of brain there to speak with, one must make certain that the skull encasing the brain isn't too thick and Neanderthal for anything to pass through."

Looking over at Amon with an eye roll, Nagira leaned back in his chair. "Alright, alright, comedian. I get your message loud and clear." He smirked, evilly. "You and Robin go right ahead and make eyes at each other all you want."

Another "meep" sound escaped from Robin, who suddenly became very interested in her wine glass again, despite the fact that she'd set it down for _good_ just prior. Amon shook his head negatively.

"We weren't making eyes," he defended. "We were communicating telepathically. And I believe that Robin had told me that she'd wanted me to punch you in the face if you didn't knock it off."

Robin's lips came away from her glass almost immediately, her green eyes wide and looking at Amon, unmindful of the smile he was hiding behind his hand, or the snickering of Nagira and Finn. "I did not! I'm..." Suddenly and perhaps foolishly emboldened by a spark inside of her—possibly, a rational fragment of Robin's mind reasoned, a spark caused by wine comsumption—Robin looked at Amon with what could only be termed as a _smirk_. "...I ought to punch _you_ in the face." Nagira let out a disbelieving, barking laugh, and Finn looked on with interest.

"The first drunken brawl of the evening," Finn said, amusedly, "is going to be between the Eve and her warden?"

Amon looked at Robin in mild shock for a moment, his eyes straying on her smirk, and then his eyes met hers, a discreet smile pulling at his lips. "You've mortally wounded my emotions, Robin. Punch _me_ in the face? That's not very nice. And I don't think you could even _reach_ my face to punch it."

She pressed on, goaded by some gleefully chanting little voice inside of her that had just discovered that it liked banter, and irked by his poking fun at her size. "I could reach it if I wanted to. I could do it right now, while you're sitting right in front of me. I can reach your face just perfectly right now."

"If you do it," Nagira said flatly, "I'll love you forever."

Finn snorted. "You're not a very good older brother, saying things like that."

"Meh," Nagira said, shrugging lackadaisically, refilling his glass. "Punk deserves it."

Amon narrowed his slate eyes, looking at Robin in ill-concealed amusement. "You think I'm scared of you?" he asked, and she narrowed her eyes at him then, the smirk still present. "I'm not afraid of taking a punch from just about everyone, most of all _you_," he finished.

Robin cocked her head at him. "You should be afraid of me."

"Always fear blondes," Finn added in the background, and Amon momentarily flicked his eyes to the American man in irritation, then turned his attention back to Robin.

The ex-Hunter regarded Robin thoughtfully, almost patronizingly. "And why should I be afraid of you, Robin?" he asked, patiently.

_People in power don't like to have their power taken away from them_, advice echoing in Robin's head. At some point, the little banter had evolved from her taunting Amon over having insinuated that she wanted Nagira punched to Robin wanting Amon to capitulate. "Because," she replied. He looked at her and then, perhaps most aggravatingly of all, he made a motion with his hand as if asking her to continue, that her existence and all her power wasn't a good enough reason to fear her.

"Because," she said, with a big, brilliant smile, "I am the alpha witch. And I'm the Eve." Her smile widened, even as Amon stared at her unflinchingly, but something in his eyes was moving. "And if I wanted to do something to you, I wouldn't have to resort to punching you in the face."

Nagira and Finn were oddly silent. Something in the air was tangibly different. Somehow it was apparent that the banter between Robin and Amon was becoming something larger. Amon, for his brave part, did not crumple, did not allow her to wound his pride so meaningfully in public. He didn't even register annoyance or disgruntlement, as he normally would have, nor did he chastise her.

Instead, startlingly, he leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly, unnaturally satisfied. "You're right. You wouldn't. And anyone who didn't fear you would be an idiot." He looked evenly at Robin's confused-triumphant face, and nodded. "I might not be scared now, but I'm approaching it."

Silence reigned between the foursome for the second, everyone quite unsure what to say. Nagira steepled his fingers under his chin and looked around at his small group. "So if you're not going to punch him in the face," he said, slowly, "_please_ tell me that you're going to at least incinerate him or something, because I for one am damned tired of his smug little attitude."

.............

Shortly after two in the morning, the house began to empty; drunken witches and their unruly children, loud and flushed from spending an evening running around the house and playing outside on the large property were heading to cars, guided by others. The driveway was a large mess of cabs and cars with drivers holding doors open, and a slightly smaller mess of people making their way to their cars, fumbling for their keys.

Amon was watching them leave from the main hall, offering up small nods and handshakes to those who bid him goodnight and their support. Robin was out on the front step with Nagira and the man Finn, saying goodbyes as Trygve rushed around the property trying to convince those without drivers or taxis to stay for the evening if they were too inebriated to drive. Sigrún, having never recovered her good humours, had retired to bed hours beforehand, cradling Eirikur to her as if the child was a stuffed toy.

And speaking of inebriated, Amon was feeling decidedly _good_. Out on the impressive front step, he could hear Robin's unusually enthusiastic, soft voice ringing out as she hugged, kissed, bid goodbye to people who asked her for words of protection, who pressed small gifts into her hands and slipped them into the pockets of her coat.

"Oi." Amon looked down to see Genevieve standing before him, swilling something around in her mouth, hitching at her too-big, ragged trousers. She looked like a wandering hippie before him. "Take a picture, it lasts longer."

"I've got a photographic memory," Amon retorted, and Genevieve scoffed.

"Photographic memory me feckin' arse." She stuck out a mitten-clad hand to him, which he shook, finding her grip to be startlingly firm and assertive. "Look, mate, it was nice t' meet you. An' look..." The girl looked around, as if she was afraid of someone hearing. "...look, tell Eve I'm sorry fer bein' such a perfect sot t' her. I'm jes' not used t' someone tellin' me they're sorry fer me mum an' da. Normally they just blame it on th' Irish blood."

Amon nodded at her, withdrawing his hand. "I'll tell her. I don't think she's offended, though."

"An' lissen...Eve's from a convent, right? Used t' be a sister?" Genevieve went on, scratching at her pixie-ish haircut. Amon nodded affirmatively. "...Um, can ye ask'er t' pray fer me? And me mum and da? I know that sounds bloody foolish, but I...it seems like if God's goin' t' lissen t' anyone, it's goin' t' be _her_."

Amon nodded looking at the fidgeting kid in front of him. "Yeah. I'll tell her. I'm sure she will. You'd better get along—I'm sure it's far past old Paolo's bedtime."

Genevieve looked guilty. "Yeah...ol' bugger needs 'is sleep. He _hasn't_ been well for a spell, after all." She waved at Amon quickly and headed for the door, where he heard her voice resume its normal bluster and bravado as she talked to the trio at the door. Amon's mind marveled at the differences between his Robin—_his_ Robin, when the hell had his brain started calling her _that_?—and the girl Genevieve. Almost on cue, Robin came sashaying in the door, seeming too relaxed and fluid to be normal Robin. Amon reminded himself it was because she was rather drunk, and not just getting better at invading his defenses with every moment.

She was shrugging out of her peacoat with one of the maids' help; Helle, the one who barely spoke any English. The maid took the coat and hung it up on the rack near the large front door and then went outside, presumably to help the head of the house tend to rallying people to spend a soused night at the house. Robin sighed and looked over at Amon heavily, her eyes looking very tired. He put his hands on his hips and tried to ignore the way his body felt like rocking with an invisible current due to alcohol.

"Feel up to having our purported boxing death match right now?" he asked, and Robin shook her head tiredly.

"Maybe later," she sighed airily, heading for the stairs to ascend to the second floor. "I'll start it when you're unaware and unsuspecting." She yawned. "Y'know, like a sneak attack." Amon turned and followed her up the stairs, smiling—and trying _damned_ hard to keep his impaired eyes from straying to Robin's behind as she climbed the stairs in a form-fitting skirt. He was mostly valiant and successful in his attempts.

"Does that mean that it's fair for me to sneak attack you too?" Amon asked as Robin sauntered down the second floor hallway, in a slightly uneven line. "I'll use my most devious attacks when you're least suspecting it."

Robin mumbled something and then shrugged. "Devious attacks?" she asked quizzically. "Are you going to knock me over the head or something?"

Amon pushed open the door to Robin's room for her, watching her shuffle in, her small hips doing most of the walking, crouching to try with some difficulty to remove her shoes. When she'd succeeded, she sat down on the carpet wearily, staring unfocusedly at the wall. "Poison my coffee? Push me down the stairs?"

Amon let out a small exhaled breath that somewhat resembled a chuckle. "No, it's much more devious than that. Pure evil." Robin looked at him with a raised eyebrow and a confused look, and then carefully got to her feet. Her half-lidded eyes regarded him curiously.

"Turn me into SOLOMON?" she asked. Amon shook his head, squinting at the ceiling in theatrical thought.

"Not quite that bad." Downstairs, far below, the sounds of a loud, drunken Nagira and a laughing Finn came in through the door. The heavy thud of the front door closing seemingly echoed through the house. "If I turned you into SOLOMON, I'd be out of a warden job, now wouldn't I?" His mind was producing the now-familiar warning bells and sirens, and once again he was now-familiarly ignoring them. _Flirting again?_ His brain asked him, chortling with laughter. _Wow. Just dig the pit deeper, Amon. Eventually you'll pop out the other side!_

Robin nodded, acquiescently. "I guess so. It'd probably make your life easier."

Amon shrugged, hearing Nagira and Finn ascending the stairs, and an unfamiliar voice—perhaps one of the maids? He started moving towards her, hands in his pockets. "Who said I wanted my life to be easy?" he said, and she looked at him unsurely as he advanced. He was very, very drunk. His best choice of action would probably be to leave the room immediately and go to his own—why the hell was he in her room, anyway? "I don't recall ever saying anything about wishing my life was easy."

Robin looked up at him timidly as he drew near. "But...wouldn't it be better for you, Amon?" she asked, and he watched her rock back on her heels somewhat as she looked up at him, her balance thrown askew by having to look up and lose a horizon line.

"Not necessarily." They were staring at each other. Something seriously bad was about to happen, his mind screeched at him, if he didn't _immediately_ desist in his actions. "There's nothing keeping me here, you know."

Robin's face fell, momentarily. "Nothing...keeping you here?"

"Except me wanting to be here." _Okay. Stop. Now. Leave the room and quit being a fuck_, Amon's brain bellowed only to be smothered by the part of his brain that was more engrossed in staring into Robin's big, green eyes. God, had he ever known anyone with eyes that green and that expressive?

"I wish it didn't have to be this way," Robin murmured suddenly, looking up at Amon helplessly. "I wish we were just like normal people, you know...like we were tonight. When we..." Robin trailed off, her words suddenly dying away. "...um. I. It felt good to laugh," she finished, almost guiltily.

The room was warmer than usual, and it was immediately attributed, by Amon's brain, to the alcohol in his system. Then he realized he'd somehow gotten close enough to Robin for them to almost be pressed right against each other, her head leaned almost all the way back to look up at him. His gut turned a somersault and ignored the way Robin's neck was arching, the way the lines of her body were curving. Nagira's voice was drawing closer, and Amon knew he had to do something—the worrying in his brain finally reaching him—but he couldn't bring himself to tear away from Robin, the way she looked, the closeness of her body.

It was then he realized, with part horror and part startled revelation, that if there _hadn't_ been anyone coming up the stairs, anyone else in the house, he would have been kissing her already.

"You know what this situation could use?" Amon asked of Robin, lowly. She looked at him, in thrall, no words conveying her mental question of 'what'. Nagira and Finn's voices were drawing closer and closer still.

"Some pure evil," he said, just before dropping down and hooking his arms around Robin's legs, right near the back of her kneecaps. Standing, hoisting her insubstantial weight in his arms, he flipped her over his shoulder with little to no effort, hearing her rattled noise of utter shock from behind him. He cursed himself as his hand steadied her over his shoulder, high on the back of her thigh—dangerously close to places he had _absolutely_ no business touching, but he pushed it to the back of his mind and turned, ignoring her astonished utterings.

Out the door to her bedroom he went, stopping in the hallway to face Nagira and Finn. Nagira regarded him as if he'd just seen the second coming of Christ, and Finn merely looked very confused. "I've caught a Robin," Amon said, opening the door to Nagira's room with his foot and entering, flicking on the light. Nagira was right behind him all of a sudden, as Finn somewhat hastily bid a goodbye from the doorway—Amon knew what he was thinking. The man assumed he was interrupting some sort of normal occurrence, Robin and Amon running around playing like little kids in love.

"Well, this is unusual," Nagira commented, even as Amon stood near his brother's bed with the squirming Robin over his shoulder, hand on her leg, feeling her kick, keeping her skirt in place. "What're you planning to do with this amazing thing you've caught, buddy?"

"Um. Let me go." Robin's voice came, meek, from behind Amon, and her squirming resumed anew. Amon shrugged, looking at Nagira.

"Not certain." Amon suddenly and unceremoniously hoisted Robin from back over his shoulder and tossed her down onto the bed—albeit gently, from a reasonable height. Robin bounced harmlessly and looked up at the two brothers looking at her as if she was an actual robin that had just been caught by cats.

"How about tickle her to death?" Nagira asked, a giant grin lighting his face. Robin was instantly and responsively terrified, scrambling but not having much success. Amon allowed a small smile to spread on his own face and he nodded.

"Tickling sounds fine to me," he affirmed.

Robin was no match for both brothers. Squeaking, she tried to scramble away, evade Nagira's hands as they caught her and wrestled with her—Robin put up a valiant fight, that was for sure—and turned her onto her back, gripping her wrists. She squirmed, alternating between fighting for escape and giggling, and Amon was next to her then, tickling her—had he ever tickled a girl, before?—mercilessly, eliciting small shrieks and uncontrollable, helpless laughter from her slim frame. Her ribcage danced beneath his fingers, her legs kicking, tears rolling from her eyes. After a substantial bout of tickling, Nagira nodded at Amon.

"Alright," he said, releasing her wrists, "let's let her up. I think she might explode." As soon as she was released, Robin's immediate response was to skittle away, breathing heavily, looking at Amon and Nagira in a decidedly betrayed manner.

"You do realize that this means war," Nagira said, looking to Amon, "as they would say in the American cartoons."

Robin, meeping all the way, began to retreat. Amon hopped up on the bed, eyeing her like she was a target. "We can call a truce, if you'd like."

Robin, watching both brothers warily, on the retreat, shook her head vehemently. "Never," she replied softly.

Amon grinned at her, advancing. Their eyes locked. There was something therapeutic about this whole escapade, something that was innately silly about playing like he was ten years old again, but somehow something so tension-relieving that it almost made him sigh out loud.

Nagira was shaking with laughter, watching the two sized each other up, making cautious movements as if one was a gazelle and the other a lion—and either one could have been either of the animals, despite the obvious positions of power. "The War of the Witches!" he cried, raising his hands into the air. "Tonight, one time only! Come one, come all—come see the War of the Witches!"

..........

AN: YO. The longest chapter evar. Heh.

Someone asked me a while back what all the chapter titles meant, and I explained to them that they were the names of song titles. Just random song titles, mind you—whatever happens to be in the CD player at the time. Now, keep in mind that I put certain CDs in the CD player when I start to write, depending on my mood, but the chapter names are randomly generated. Whee. So here's the list of songs and artists so far:

Ch. 1 – The Beginning – actually not a song title. Just an apt name for a first chapter.

Ch. 2 – Spark – Tori Amos

Ch. 3 – Young Liars – TV On The Radio

Ch 4. – Funny Time Of Year – Beth Gibbons and Rustin Man

Ch. 5 – The Sky Is Falling – Queens of The Stone Age

Ch. 6 – Waiting Room – Fugazi

Ch. 7 – The Argument – Fugazi

Ch. 8 – Temporary Like Achilles – Bob Dylan

Ch. 9 – Enjoy The Silence – originally by Depeche Mode, covered by Tori Amos

Ch. 10 – The Outsider – A Perfect Circle

Ch. 11 – The Band Played Waltzing Matilda – The Pogues

Ch. 12 – Cowboys – Portishead

Ch. 13 – The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carrol – Bob Dylan

Ch. 14 – Tiny Cities Made of Ashes – Modest Mouse

Ch. 15 – Bachelorette – Bjork

Ch. 16 – Erase/Rewind – The Cardigans

Ch. 17 – Summer – Mogwai

Yes. I own over two hundred CDs, but you'll discover that I often listen to the same things over and over again when writing. I'm kind of boring that way.

Coming up next—lots of bad things, and warfare. Yes, warfare. Wheee.

Love

meris


	18. Pyramid Song

It was a familiar dream, one that had long ago ceased to bother him. It was a nightmare-but-not; more like a story with him as a participating viewer. It wasn't frightening but it wasn't cheerful either.

It was just plain strange.

The warm summer breeze blew teasingly through the air, through his hair, whispering along through the grass and the trees. He was younger then, shorter, just out of jumping range of what he was trying to obtain. The long brown hair that hung down from the tree branch above him fluttered in midair, the wind catching up the sounds of her giggling and sweeping it off into oblivion.

"_Matka_," he murmured, reaching upwards. His hands were smaller, his arms thinner, his voice higher and less defined—he couldn't have been more than fourteen, every time, in the dream. His mother had been long dead, by that time in his life.

And yet there she was, in the tree high above him, dangling a puzzle piece out of his reach. No matter what he did, how he tried, he could never reach it. And she never made any movements to help him reach it. She rocked back, leaning back in her position in the tree, sides shaking with laughter. Her long, undone brown hair was in disarray, hanging long and messy, making her look even crazier than she had in real life.

But she was beautiful, and she was _alive_ in these dreams.

And she was looking at him with her big copper-grey eyes, laughing, and laughing, and laughing, holding the puzzle piece out at arm's length. One lightly bronzed foot hung down from the tree branch she sat upon, swinging back and forth idly. His mother's laughter had always been an odd mix between beautiful, joyful laughter and the outright lung-bursting laughter of the mentally ill.

It was the same, even in dreams. Even in dreams, she was as much of a mystery to him as she had been when alive.

..........

Commotion outside the door awoke him, his brain swimming with thoughts of his mother and puzzles, and a moderate hangover. Amon grimaced upon sitting up and pressed an open palm to his temple tightly. It did little to alleviate the dull ache behind his eyeballs.

The door to his room swung open, revealing Nagira in a state of more-or-less-dress. He looked at his scowling brother and nodded. "Yeah, me too. Get up. There's a message here."

Amon moved stiffly out of the bed, feeling as if he hadn't used his body in ages. Sitting on the edge of the mattress for a moment to gather his wits, he stood and pulled an old black t-shirt out of his bag, pulling it on. He looked most undignified in a pair of grayish sleep pants and a ratty old shirt, but Nagira's manner spoke of urgency. Amon walked to the door and discovered Robin standing in the hall, a moue upon her face that was similar to his own upon awakening. She'd managed to don a familiar old ochre skirt under her usual night-wear slip, but had simply pulled a sweater around her shoulders to cover up the rest of the way. Robin's normally wide green eyes seemed incapable of opening all the way, and Amon had a good idea why.

"Your first lesson in the evils of alcohol," he said to her, and then nodded at Nagira. "Let's go."

.............

The simple words on the more than resplendent piece of paper in front of Amon were not doing much to cheer his already semi-foul morning mood. His head pounded, he was internally berating himself for his foolishness around Robin the evening prior, and now _this_.

Robin, from her balled position in a chair, looked up at Amon with a wince. "What does it say?" she asked quietly, as if her own voice was ringing too loudly in her ears.

Trygve, whom was in a similar state of undress to the rest of them, sat behind his desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose under his glasses. "It says they already know you're here. Apparently those hoity-toity bastards have been keeping tabs on you, or on me—or perhaps on both."

"Who?" Robin asked, dazedly. "SOLOMON?"

Amon handed the piece of paper in his hands to Nagira, who began to look over it intently. "No. Whatever this 'committee' is, it knows we're here." He sighed, rubbing at his eyes, harshly regretting his decision to drink so much the evening before. "And it sounds as if it's irritated that we didn't come straight to _them_."

"So like them," Trygve snarled, a rare moment of anything but kindness from their host. He was fuming, his glasses amplifying the anger in his blue eyes, the muscles in his arms twitching as he clenched and unclenched his fists. "They consider themselves the gateway to _everything_. As we speak, they're probably plotting various ways to either keep you quiet or just get rid of you, altogether."

Nagira sighed, letting the paper waft down to the desk. "So much for negotiations, huh?"

Robin, stunned out of her sleepy, hung-over state by the sudden animosity in the conversation, sat up and held her hands up. "Now, wait...this doesn't mean that we can't still negotiate with them and come to some sort of agreement." Her face twisted into a confused frown. "I don't understand what makes them so powerful, anyway. If they don't like us, then so what. What does that letter say, anyway?"

Trygve took up the embossed piece of stationary and held it in front of him, adjusting his glasses. "To our friends Trygve and Sigrún, and their esteemed guests from Japan: We hope all goes well in your house. The trip of the esteemed guests must have been a long and arduous one and we appreciate their need for rest. We are, however, _greatly insulted_—"Here, Trygve's voice was bitterly twinged, "—that you did not first present the guests to us, for them to make use of our services. It would have been the polite thing to do, but we understand your faux pas. You must be very busy with the business of running such a large, powerful, respected coven." Trygve paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose once more. "Fuckers."

Robin frowned. "That's in the letter?"

"No, that's just my general reply to all of their cute little sarcasm," the blonde man answered. He looked back to the letter, glasses back in place. "We will meet in the future, to be sure. Accept our invitation to dine at a winter home this evening at seven o'clock, on Knippels-brogade near the Christiens Kirke, building number 67."

Trygve looked over at Nagira who nodded, knowingly. "And leave your human guest behind," Trygve finished, and Robin looked to the lawyer in shock, then back to Trygve. Her visage of shock quickly faded into indignation.

"Why would they want us to leave Nagira here?" she demanded.

"He's a human," Trygve said bitterly. "They'd rather not have anything to do with him, unless it's to have him shine their shoes or cook their meals. He has no place there." The blonde man leaned back in his desk chair, a pensive mask upon his face. "What concerns me the most is not the matter of whether or not they would like Nagira to attend; it's the matter of them having a house here in Copenhagen. They didn't used to." Stroking purposefully at his moustache, Trygve turned his sight back to the letter. "I've sent Finn to downtown Copenhagen to wander about a bit and see what he can see, find out what he can find out. Some of the coven might still be here in town from last night, aside from those who already live here in Copenhagen."

The sour mood in the room was infectious and clinging, and it was probably only being worsened by the fact that three—not for certain four—of the people in the room were battling hangovers.

..........

By midday, Robin had felt infinitely better. This was only after she'd spent the rest of the morning lying in bed, in the dark, trying hard not to think but mostly failing. After the ache in her head had begun to subside, she'd gone into the bathroom for her bathing ritual, and emerged feeling hungry.

Lurking around the house, she didn't spy a soul. Quietly she slipped into the kitchen, undoubtedly forbidden territory, and looked into the giant refrigerator—also undoubtedly forbidden territory. Feeling distinctly criminal, she snuck back up to her room with grapes, an apple, and a small hunk of some sort of cheese.

As she ate, she continued trying to prevent herself from thinking too much on the implications of the letter. She knew next to _nothing_ about these mysterious witches who seemed to hold so much power in the world. She didn't even know how much power they actually held. It was becoming rapidly apparent that they probably weren't the most genial of people. It was also becoming apparent that they may have inherently resented her for _something_.

Frustrated, chewing on a piece of cheese, Robin flopped back on her bed. She'd noticed that it had been neatly made while she was in the bath, presumably by Helle or Beatrix. One last sizeable bite finished off the both the cheese hunk and Robin's stolen lunch. Resting her hands on her bosom, Robin stared up at the white molded ceiling with its golden-bronze embellishments. The worries and questions in her head were spiraling into innumerability, and she closed her eyes, biting her lower lip.

_Just for a moment_, she told herself. _Just to relax. ...and perhaps see if anyone knows anything_.

Concentrating, Robin discovered with surprise-that-wasn't-really-all-that-surprised that it was getting easier and easier for her to slip into the otherworld, the normal blackness of closed eyelids expanding outward perceptibly, glowing spots upon glowing spots popping up out of the growing void.

Her otherworld self—always represented as her own body, she wondered what the other witches saw of her, if they saw her at all—floated around in the void, knees drawn up to her chest, her henna-coloured skirt hanging down into nothing.

"Hi. It's me," she whispered out into the anti-air, to the orbs of light. "I guess I just wanted to...go someplace quiet."

Lights grew and dimmed in response. Robin wasn't sure if that meant that people could hear her, or if they were simply aware of her consciousness, or if they were protesting the intrusion, or _what_. "It's nice here," she went on, timorously. "I was so afraid of this place at first, and then Amon had warned me not to come here any more..." She looked around her in confusion. Normally she could _find_ Amon, no matter what. He was always the brightest glow, closest to her. His presence was mysteriously absent. "...but now it isn't such a problem, I don't think."

Having no tangible reply will make one think that one is talking to one's self.

"What is the committee?" Robin asked suddenly, craning her head up and straightening her posture. She released her knees and let her legs down, floating along through nothingness like some sort of bizarre angel. "_Who_ are the committee? I know someone here has to know something. If they're witches, they're probably even here themselves. Somebody? Anyone?" Robin was moving about then, not quite cognizant of how she was making herself do it. She was hovering through the space, drifting between the glows. "Can you even talk to me, or do I have to talk to you?"

The whispering murmur, the voices of the witches, at first just a barely audible background noise, grew in intensity, rising to a volume and a noise that resembled the sound of ocean water. Robin frowned.

"I thought I told you about all talking at once!" she barked. She felt like a grade school teacher. The murmuring died down, and for a while, it stayed that way while Robin hovered in hope and annoyance.

_Hi_. A voice out of the gloom. _I can hear you. Who are you? You're in my head. Why am I hearing voices in my head? They're not mine, I know that much._

Robin whirled towards the sound within her mind, turning to face a non-existent direction in space. "Where are you? I'm coming closer. I want to talk to you."

_NO. Don't come near me. What are you and why are you in my head?_ The voice demanded, sounding panicked and female. _I'm going nuts. I'm losing my mind._

Robin, whom had began to float forward propelled by whatever mysterious power it was that moved her, stopped short. "You're not. You're a witch. I'm a witch. We can talk."

_This has never happened to me before._ _I think I'm just going bonkers_.

"It's different, this time. You must have heard me asking questions, and some part of you...I'm not sure which or how...responded." Somehow being inside of someone's mind, Robin surmised, must have been like being in their living room uninvited. "I'm Robin. I'm the Eve of Witches."

_The Eve of Witches doesn't exist. It's a fairytale that old ones tell little ones before supper time in the evening. I don't care what ANYONE says, I don't believe the stories._

Robin's face darkened. "Why not? I'm in your head, aren't I? I'm talking to you, aren't I?" Her queries were met with silence. "I just want to ask you some questions."

_Oh, sweet Father. Fine. Ask me questions. But make it quick—my children are playing in the fields and I need to bring them in for a bath. I suppose stranger things have happened in a witch's lifetime. For all I know, you're THEM, come to take me away and kill me. I certainly don't believe that you're the Eve of Witches, though._

Robin's dark face darkened even more, if such a thing was possible. "Where are you from? In Europe, presumably; you know about the committee."

_I'm...I live in Romania. And yes, I know of the committee. Who doesn't?_ the voice asked, the formerly suspicious female voice turning acidic. _Committee. Murderers, that's what they are._

Green eyes narrowed, interest piqued. "Tell me more."

_You want to know, voice? I'll tell you. They kill witches and humans for sport. They abuse their power and extort those whom they think they can turn a profit from. It is as if they are mafiosos. I have even heard..._ The voice trailed off into nothingness, faint murmurs of what it was. _Oh, Jesu, I can't believe I'm talking to myself like this._

"You're not talking to yourself," Robin reassured, even though she was certain the witch-woman wouldn't believe her. "I'm the Eve. I swear. I know you don't believe me, but have faith. I'm going to meet this committee, and I need your help...and the help of anyone you can gather to talk to me. Tell them to search for me. I'll find them, somehow, here in this place."

_Oh, Lord, I don't believe this. Fine, 'Eve', I'll tell you. I've heard they deal with THEM, the pathetic, scared little monsters—feebly grasping at the power they can accumulate, enough so to side with those who would just as soon as kill them as look at them!_

Her tongue was momentarily punctured between her teeth, her heart beating faster, her whole body set on edge. "Them? You mean...SOLOMON?"

_Who else?_ The voice snapped, almost irritably. _I don't even like to think of them. It's bad luck. You...whoever, whatever you are...would be best to avoid the witches of the high committee. You're lucky if they don't seek YOU_ _out. They...they killed my father and my uncle, those dirty bastards. They are not worth the dirt beneath my feet. They're a dishonour to the name of witch._

Robin's fair brows twitched in interest, and she lay down on her stomach in the nothing, propping her elbows up on black space. "What happened?"

_My father and my uncle, they were involved with the Gift—years ago, trying to use the Gift to relieve oppression through the government, in the Eastern European countries. It turns out that the committee had ties through the governments, blood ties, money ties—it was not good money for them to have revolutionaries besmirching their plans. _

"And?" Robin waited for a reply, the murmuring of the others in the background faded to almost absolutely nothing, the sound of television static in a faraway room.

_My mother, my sisters, my youngest brother and I received my father's hands in a box on St. Valentine's Day, years ago. My aunt and her children received a similar gift on the same day, years ago. Both had identical notes enclosed: 'Those whose hands seek to undo the work of their peers often find themselves idle.'_

Robin tilted her head to the side, wincing. Against her will, her mind conjured up images of crying children, a comatose-through-shock mother, and a bloody parcel sitting upon a kitchen table. In horror, she realized that it wasn't _her_ mind that was producing such images, it was the mind of the other witch.

_You. You can see it. I can FEEL you seeing it. What are you?_

Shuddering, Robin opened her eyes fully and stared into blank space. "I...am the Eve."

_Are you ready to have the body parts of the ones you love mailed to you? Are you ready to have your supposed people turn against you, if you truly are what you say you are?_ The voice was low, questioning, serious. _They care not for their fellows. They care not for the laws and rules that should govern a sovereign society of brothers and sisters. They care only for power and recognition, esteem. If you are who you say you are, you are nothing but a small bug to them. They will crush you, just as they crush anyone who stands against them._ The voice paused, and in the silence there was despair and sadness. _Just like they crushed my vader and my unche...if you are who you say you are, abandon your course. Fight SOLOMON, instead. They are a far less lethal enemy._

A dry, cold wind was blowing within Robin, a wind of hate and rage and sadness. These people whose favour she was supposed to curry were murderers? Heartless monsters concerned with their own gain and power? Her fingers twitched, her jaw clenched. Righteous indignation boiled in her throat. "SOLOMON comes last. Unity of witches comes first. And those who will not unify will _submit_," Robin growled, not recognizing her own voice. How was it that she found it so much easier to be forceful, intimidating there in the otherworld? "This committee does not frighten me. I am the Eve. They will understand and comply or they will—" She stopped, turning her head to the side again, her mouth burning with the fierceness of her words. "—They will understand."

_If you'd like to think so._ The voice sighed, harried. _My children come. Go, spirit. Whatever you are. Leave me. I have three shrieking children to force-feed the same old potatoes again. Being the Eve must be nice—new food, every day? We get awfully sick of potatoes._

Her mouth open to reply, Robin felt a breeze in her face as if someone had slammed a door. "Hello?" she queried experimentally. There was no reply, and it was then that she realized that her communication with other witches—at least at that point—was a two-way ordeal. She wasn't able to simple pry their minds open and rummage around; they had to _allow_ her in, or at the very least be _accepting_ to the idea of a voice, reaching out through the void to speak. Skirts rustled as she sat up, searching the blackness around her with timid curiosity. "Anyone else?" she inquired, watching the innumerous orbs around her flicker in response, and the sea of murmuring rise to crest on an invisible shore.

..................

"Robin. Robin." Amon's hands were on her shoulders then, the thin and insubstantial little bits of body that they were, shaking gently. "_Robin. _Robin." His mind quickened to panic but he smashed it down, ignoring it.

She was just lying there asleep, after all. Asleep, with her mouth moving, whispering to herself, her mind definitely wandering. She was just very _deeply_ asleep. His hands tightened on her tiny shoulders, shaking a bit more fiercely; more out of need for her to come back than out of need to be so ferocious. "_Robin_!" Kelly eyes snapped open, unfocused and dreamy, wandering around the room. His hands remained locked onto her skinny shoulders like they were ladder rungs that kept him from falling into nothing.

"Amon," she breathed, her voice sweet and drowsy, and began to sit up. His grip on her shoulders eased some but disturbingly enough—to him, at least—did not release. Ginger hair sliding over his hands, Robin drew up into a sitting position, looking down at her knees. "I was sleeping," she nearly purred, her voice still fuzzy and in disuse from sleep. A slim white hand went to her head, ruffling her silken hair some. "I was...in the otherworld, again."

Amon forced his face to remain straight and solemn, unaffected by the internal fear of her power. "And?"

"Nothing," she spoke dismissively, disconnectedly. "Just talking." The sleepy kelly eyes opened fully, taking in the fabric of her skirt, her bed covers. Body acting before mind, Amon moved his hand up to the back of her head to tilt it, forcing her to look up at him. Her head moved without much resistance, too compliantly.

Missed and ignored opportunity number five bazillion for a kiss.

"Are you alright?" he asked. Robin's green eyes took up most of his vision and focus but he managed to catch the shapes of stems and an apple core out of the corner of his eye. "Eating in bed?" he enjoined, eyes sliding over to the discarded food skeletons.

A sound suspiciously like a moan came from Robin's lips, and her shoulders tugged against Amon's other hand, leaning backwards. "Lunch," she muttered, by way of explanation for the foodstuffs on her bed. "I'm...fine. I'm just tired. I meant to relax but incidentally very little of that happened." He released her and watched her flop back on the bed like a lifeless marionette. "I don't understand why I want to sleep so much."

He watched her lying there on the bed, looking up at him. "It's your age," he said pointedly. "Teenagers sleep the most out of any age group, you know." A minute smirk threatened to break out onto his face, despite his partially foul mood (head still slightly throbbing). "I would think that having a massive hangover wouldn't help things any either."

Robin's eyebrows drew together, a puzzle working in her mind. "Hangover?" she asked confusedly. "What's that?"

....................

Robin looked good. She looked _damn_ good, even Nagira had to admit that much to himself. She looked like one of those cute little business types one would see on the Tokyo bullet trains, the girls who walked past purposefully in their clicking little heels, making one's head turn to follow them. Sure, she wasn't quite as curvaceous as some of the women that had made Nagira's head turn on the bullet trains, but then again she was still young, and she was just so damn small anyway.

His brother was going to get a severe nosebleed when he saw her.

"You look sharp, kiddo." He looked down to her feet, noticing the same old pair of black Mary Janes on her feet. "Didn't you have any snappier shoes to go with it, though?"

Robin turned pink and looked at her shoes. "I can't walk in them," she admitted in embarrassment. "The heels are too big and they're extremely uncomfortable."

Well, at least Robin wasn't one of those women who'd cram their feet into the most uncomfortable shoes possible just to look good and then spend the rest of the evening bitching about how much their feet hurt. Nagira shrugged. "Oh well. Those work fine." Robin looked at herself in a frame mirror that hung on one of the walls in the entry hall, appraising her outfit; little black cardigan and a deep russet-hued strapless number that came down to the middle of her shins, sticking to what little curves she had in all the right places and still managing to look demure and businesslike at the same time.

Sigrún had good taste in clothes. Nagira reminded himself to tell the woman this the next time he saw her, which had been few and far between lately. It seemed as if the woman and her child—both of them—had sequestered themselves away in a bedroom somewhere in the house, refusing to come out. She'd apparently appeared for just long enough to help a frustrated Robin with her hair, parting it on the side, smoothing it, and then pulling it back into a ponytail. Then she'd hauled back off to her bedroom with Eirikur, presumably back to bed. She hadn't been feeling very well, recently.

Sigrún's absence meant that Trygve more oft than not spent most of his time bouncing back and forth between his office and the bedroom, checking on his wife and son and even bringing meals up to them himself, ushering away the maids. Inside the parlor, Finn was smoking and attempting to find some sort of outlet and cable hookup that would allow him to install a television.

"No damn TV in this house," he'd muttered to Nagira earlier, who'd walked in on the American's hunt for an electrical outlet. "How do you people live without a TV?"

"Easy," Nagira had replied, snickering. "We're not Americans."

Finn looked at him balefully. "Oh _ha ha_. You do realize you've just earned yourself a token Hello Kitty joke, right?"

"What are you going to do tonight, Nagira?" Robin queried out of the blue, bringing Nagira out of his internal assessment of the house. He shrugged, sticking his hands into the pockets of his deep greenish slacks.

"Dunno," he replied, casually. "It's just going to be me and Finn here, and Sigrún—if you count her, considering she's in her room all the time now." A noise at the top of the stairs drew Nagira's attention and he noticed his brother coming down the stairs, adjusting his already impeccable tie. "The man of the hour," he commented, watching Amon _almost_ stop on the stairs when Robin turned to look at him and he caught full sight of her.

"Where's Trygve?" Amon asked neutrally, arriving in front of Robin and his brother. His eyes refused to acknowledge that Robin was there.

Robin, however, unintentionally refused to be ignored. "He's bringing the car around," she supplied, looking at her ex-partner. "He said that he would drive tonight just in case we...needed to leave in a hurry." She looked momentarily worried but the emotion passed from her face quickly. Then, honestly and innocently, she appraised Amon's appearance. "You look very sharp," she commented brightly, and he looked over at her in an almost dreading manner. His eyes lingered a bit longer than was usual for him while looking at Robin.

"You look nice as well," he acknowledged, uncomfortably. Nagira wished he had a camera. If Amon _ever_ blushed, he probably would have been doing it right then.

"Well, I suppose you two'd better go out there and wait for Trygve to come around," Nagira said, ushering them towards the door. "He should be around any second, eh?"

Pausing at the door so Robin could grab her coat, Nagira continued to herd the two out the front door with a faint smile on his face. "Bye, kids!" he called cheerfully from the door as Robin and Amon descended the front step's stairs. "Have fun! Don't bring her back _too_ late now, young man, y'hear?"

The look of utter death that Amon fired off at his brother and the way Robin turned around and waved cheerfully made Nagira wish once again that he had a camera.

............................

His Craft was lurching and he couldn't stop it. It was part apprehension, part wariness, part trying to keep his tongue in his mouth. Robin's appearance was getting more and more dangerous with every passing day. At this rate, he was going to end up like a stuttering teenager on his first date by the end of the week.

Headlights on the road were ungodly bright, and Amon winced against them with each passing car. The steady chugging of the old Checker's engine sounded like a symphony of clicks, beats, and whirs to him, and he found himself _really_ having to concentrate on what Trygve was saying in order to hear him. Everything else was just sensory overload. He could _smell_ Robin in the backseat, some sort of pleasant mix of new clothing and freshly washed skin and hair.

The inside of his mouth tasted like metal. Trygve was talking to him.

"These people are absolute elitist bastards," he said, voice dripping with distaste. The Checker came to a slow, lumbering stop at a light, flanked on all sides by small, efficient European vehicles. The stop lights were so bright in Amon's eyes that they were starting to turn into small starts, points of light coming out from them like solar rays. "They'll try to intimidate you and they will try to use their status in society against you. And if they seem rather...what's the term...? 'Sketchy'? If they seem sketchy to you, it is probably because they _are_."

Amon looked to Trygve, the subtle chugging vibrations that came from the Checker's engine feeling like an earthquake to Amon's senses. "What are these people involved in? You never really explained." His voice was booming even though he hadn't spoken all that loudly.

Trygve soured. "A lot of things. Nothing they can be caught for, I don't think, unless they make a misstep. I know they kill people."

"Kill people?" Robin's startled voice came from the backseat.

"Kill people," Trygve reaffirmed. "It's their solution to problems. They run very much like a mafia would; whatever their business is, wherever it is, they're going to protect it through any means necessary. They immensely dislike people interfering with their ways."

"Kill people," Robin murmured to herself in the back seat, quiet enough to where Trygve couldn't have heard it but Amon's overly-sensitive hearing picked it up with little difficulty. He turned to look back at her through the car's darkness, finding her with her arms folded over her middle, her eyes staring thoughtfully out the long, wide window. She looked more pensive than upset, so Amon let it slide.

"Just our luck to inadvertently fit into the interfering role," he said, turning back around to stare out at the sunbursts of light along the road that represented tail lights and street lamps.

....................

Upon their arrival at the house—a large, red, impressive affair of a tall, thin flat—Amon noticed with a large level of discomfort that his Craft was refusing to submit to his commands and calm down. The light sheen of sweat on his forehead was drying in the cold wind, but it must not have been drying fast enough—Robin noticed and looked at him with concern, to which he cast his glance away dismissively. She said nothing but idled at his side, walking next to him, keeping step with him out of concern. Trygve walked ahead of them to the large front door of the flat and gave the brass knocker a couple of powerful taps.

Moments later the door opened, revealing a young man in a sharp suit, looking out at them impassively. "Welcome," he said in a polite monotone, opening the door wider, spilling light out across the trio. Amon winced. "Your hosts have been expecting you."

As the young man—obviously a butler or a doorman of sorts—held the door open for them and they walked in, Robin thanked him quietly and then thanked him again when he immediately turned to help her out of her coat upon shutting the door. Folding the fabric carefully and neatly, he hung it on a rack near the door impeccably. He turned to Trygve and Amon and held out his hands. "Would you gentlemen like for me to hang your coats for you?"

Heart pounding, Amon quickly shrugged out of his overcoat and handed it to the young man, who accepted it with smooth and deliberate movements. The doorman's robotic qualities were doing nothing to help Amon calm down—from the moment he'd walked in the door, his sense of impending doom had only grown.

_It's just a fucking dinner meeting, _Amon's mind reassured him. _Even if they do already hate you, even if you're potentially taking a dangerous gamble—it's just a dinner meeting. _The doorman, saying something, indicated that they should follow him down a dimly-lit hallway towards a set of doors. Trygve followed first, and Robin, looking up at Amon with concern, waited until he moved to follow along.

The eerily calm young man opened the double doors at the end of the dim hallway to reveal a sitting room, parlour of sorts. The smell of expensive cigars hung heavy in the air, and the sounds of muted conversation drifted out. No one looked to the door, even though Amon could clearly make out six distinct heads and faces, around the room. Trygve squared his shoulders and walked in, and Amon imperceptibly bristled at the way the doorman stared at Robin as she walked in behind Trygve.

He managed a steely look at the doorman, who looked back at him blankly, as he entered the room last.

Once the doors were closed behind them, only then did some of the heads turn. Amon looked at them all quickly—five men, one woman. They ranged in age from what appeared to be around his age to perhaps early sixties. Their Icelandic companion, in front of them, smiled broadly and crossed to the front of a loveseat. The man on the loveseat closest to him stood, revealing a powerful build and a sharp, no-nonsense suit.

"Ah, Trygve," the man intoned, and Amon immediately bristled then—a Czech accent. This man was what Amon himself was a part of. "So good of you to come! But you are devoid of a wife, I see?"

Trygve, exchanging customary social pecks on the cheeks, managed a strong smile. "Thank you for having us. Sigrún is otherwise detained—she is with child, once again, and this pregnancy has not been as easy as the first was."

"I am sorry to hear such news." The rest of the room was silent except for the tall Czech man. Amon was scanning him silently, taking in his wide shoulders, his buzz-cut salt and pepper hair; and when he turned, the sharp lines of his face, the definite square of his jaw, the cleft of his chin. This man appeared as if he had been in the military at some point in time. "And you, new friends, so good of you to come as well." He rounded the couch, coming towards Amon and Robin. Amon almost _sensed_ Robin's desire to shrink away, but she stood her ground.

"My name is Reznik," the man said, extending a firm hand towards Amon, whose mind immediately set off warning bells. _Reznik. Reznik means butcher_, his mind screamed at him. He ignored it and shook hands with Reznik, a small war of hand-shake grip strength occurring. They nodded at each other, and Amon spoke.

"My name is Amon," he said. And then, even though his mind screamed _no_ at him: "You are already aware of this, I think."

Reznik laughed as Trygve began to socialize quietly with the other five people in the background, obscured by the intensity of the situation in front of Amon. "Ah, yes. I was. I am. I'm also aware of the fact that you're half-Czech."

Amon forced his face to remain neutral, staring evenly into the dark brown eyes of the severe-looking man in front of him. "Yes. My mother was part Czech. I was born there."

Reznik nodded, silently and discreetly sizing Amon up. Apparently done with his appraisal, he turned next to Robin, a smile on his lips—a smile that somehow _seemed_ like a smile that a butcher would have, and Robin in front of him was little more than a piece of meat to be cut up and doled out. Amon's teeth were threatening to grind. "And you, my dear—Robin, is it?—you are a vision. I am so glad that you could join us this evening," he complimented, and then exchanged the customary polite kisses with Robin. She smiled at him, her most winning, bright smile—which just made her look all the more ripe for the butchering, a lamb among dogs.

"I'm very glad to meet you, Reznik," she said, voice calm and cheerful. "This is such a wonderful opportunity for all of us."

Reznik, watching her smile at him, widened his own butcher-smile. "Yes it is."

.........................

Silently, as calmly as possible, his eyes slid around the table as the food was served, set in front of them perfectly and pristinely as if they didn't have their own arms and legs to move about.

First off was Reznik, head of the table—apparently the official or unofficial head of this so-called illustrious committee. Severe, militant, and Czech—a man after Amon's own heart, if only they hadn't been immediately opposed to each other from the get-go. There was a secret cunning about him, a disguised-yet-overt predatory nature about him that made Amon's skin crawl and his teeth set on edge. It suddenly occurred to him that most people probably felt precisely the same way about he himself, and Amon resolved not to think about that much.

Next was the apparent oldest of the group, an old Scottish man named Donald. The old man hadn't said much; only chain-smoked hundred-dollar cigars and stared at everyone, his hand resting on his gut as if he was someone's complacent grandfather.

Next to Trygve, who was in between Donald and Reznik was Julien, a Frenchman. He was seemingly the youngest of the group, perhaps around Amon's age. Distinctively effeminate, bordering on foppishness, Julien seemed to be the lowest threat from the committee. Amon, his brain working in insidious ways and the cogs of his sub-brain, the almost criminal aspect, figured that he could grab Julien by the neck and have done with him in one quick turn of the wrists. There didn't look like there'd be much of a fight.

Next to Julien was Paz, the only woman among the six witches that made up the committee. She was older, perhaps pushing forty; but curvaceous and beautiful. There was something about her that was disturbingly attractive, perhaps her well-rounded figure or her movie-star face, but her eyes spoke of chronic untruthfulness. Amon might have admired her appearance, having no other choice as a man; but he didn't like her one bit.

At the other end of the table was another elderly man, perhaps the same age as Donald, or rapidly approaching. His name was Teodor, and he was a Romanian. Amon himself, shockingly, hadn't been able to pick up much from the man on his own, relying upon his own instincts. However, Robin, upon meeting him, had stiffened and spiked like spines on a cactus, invisible crackles of electricity almost shooting up from her skin. Something about the man had definitely spooked her, and Amon, after having been around Robin for so long, had become attuned to Robin's reactions. Something—he wasn't sure what—was definitely right out about the old man.

Then there was himself and Robin at the table, Robin nearest to Teodor, and on Amon's other side was a middle-aged man named Oskari, a Finn. According to Reznik and the rest of the group, the Finn didn't speak much English. That was perfectly fine with Amon. As far as he was concerned, one look at Oskari's shifty blue-green eyes that never seemed to settle on any one thing for too long, and he'd already made a judgment about him.

Dinner commenced. The sounds of silverware on plates clinked through the small but lavish dining area. Robin, in a show of restraint, slowed down and ate her food like a lady. The food tasted like metal in Amon's over-sensitive mouth.

They'd jumped straight out of the pan into the fire. His mind churned. There was no one around them save Trygve that Amon would even remotely consider trusting at all.

"So," Teodor began in a heavily accented voice, stroking his long goatee, "you have been running from SOLOMON for long time?"

Amon, who had a mouth full of veal, didn't open his mouth to speak. Talking with one's mouth full was nearly one of the seven deadly sins to him. Robin, who quickly swallowed her food, replied for him. "Yes," she answered. "Well, I suppose not so terribly long, actually. It just seems very long...it's been rough at times."

"Yes, SOLOMON is ruthless," Teodor surmised, reaching for his glass. "I think they are finest hunters in world. Nothing escape them. They get the prey."

"That's not entirely true," Trygve said, looking down the table to the old Romanian man. "They're only so big. They only have so far of a reach." The silence among the people at the table was nearly deafening to Amon and a slice of his brain waved little red flags at Trygve's instigation of a touchy discussion with the old Romanian.

"They reach wider than you think," Teodor murmured darkly to Trygve. His words carried either foreboding or dislike, Amon couldn't distinguish which. Food in his stomach churned unpleasantly and without warning he set his fork down purposefully, staring blankly at his plate. He was done with food for the time being. A helpless feeling arose within him; he knew that if he ate any more he would more than likely be sick, his body too nervous and tense to function properly. Robin was looking at Teodor with a look that was a mask meant to disguise several different emotions. The impression of a live-wire, charged with nervous energy, was radiating from her again.

Amidst the gentle din of polite yet somehow dangerous dinner conversation, Amon _felt_ a tendril of Robin's probing mind reaching out to him furtively, perhaps trying to gauge his level of discomfort. He might have been out of sorts and mentally scattered, but his brain still worked enough to clamp down its walls and effectively lock Robin out. She withdrew quickly, mortified at having been caught trying to investigate—but Amon knew, looking over at the blonde girl who was avoiding making eye contact with him, that if she'd really wanted to get past his mental defenses that she probably could have with ease.

...........................

The touch of well-manicured, mauve-brown lacquered nails alit on Robin's shoulder, lingering almost _intimately_ near her collarbone. Turning her face upward, she was met with the sight of the woman Paz's rounded, sensual olive-hued countenance. A smile pulled the bee-stung, glossy lips into a somehow suggestive curve and Robin was uncomfortable, resisting the urge to squirm.

"Why don't you join me outside, Robin?" she asked in a voice that sounded straight out of a noir film—the nightclub dame, sprawled on a piano in a slinky black dress. "I'm going to step out for a moment to have a cigarette."

Robin couldn't help but look to Amon for approval, instantly wishing that she hadn't. The amusement of the others in the room save Trygve was almost material. His visage was odd, unreadable, scrambled; so Robin took initiative and stood, nodding to the Spanish woman. "I'll join you."

"Excellent." They left the room through a set of double doors, Paz ahead of Robin with dangerous curves and swinging hips. Moving through a darkened room they reached another set of double doors that led to a small balcony overlooking a small inner courtyard. The interior of the building was shrouded in shadows, and the sultry figure of Paz looked to be little more than a dark, nondescript figure. She lit her cigarette, the smart snap of her lighter illuminating her face for a split second, and then the world sank back into darkness, smoothly exhaled smoke hanging in the cold air above their heads.

"My patience for men and their _machismo_ power wars is only so big," the woman said after a delay, to Robin. "Men are somewhat useless, with the exception of a few tasks."

Robin tittered, shivering in the cold air. Gooseflesh rose on her body. "I see."

Paz looked over at her through the dark, her brown eyes magnetic even in the darkness, heavy black lashes batting. "Not that you would know, I assume."

Some extremely rarely used cogs in the very feminine part of Robin's brain turned and she fought the urge to blush as she realized what the older woman was talking about. "Oh. No." The way the older woman was looking at her was unnerving.

"That's a shame," the committee woman murmured with a click of her tongue. "I haven't met the human you keep company with, but you seem to have extraordinarily good taste in witch men." A cunning smirk appeared in the darkness. "You don't mean to tell me that it's accidental, either, do you?"

The young blonde was somewhat bewildered at the turn the conversation was taking. "Oh, well...it rather is, I suppose." She itched to be back inside at Amon's side, in tremulous safety, away from ambiguous conversation.

A faint sound of disbelief issued from Paz's mouth along with a streamlined jet of smoke. "You mean to tell me that you and _none_ of your so-called 'caretakers' have...?"

Robin shook her head fervently. A blush was creeping into her cheeks then and she couldn't help it. The thought of Trygve or Nagira made her extremely uncomfortable and somewhat disgusted—she couldn't make herself see them in that light—but the thought of what the woman was insinuating between Robin and Amon was bordering on sensory overload.

"Huh." Paz shrugged with delicately and carefully groomed eyebrows. "You being the _Eve of Witches_ and all," and Robin blinked at the inflection in the woman's voice on her title, "I'd figure that any and all men with half of an ego couldn't wait to get between your legs."

"I...don't think it's like that," Robin managed meekly. These were thoughts she didn't even allow herself to think often, let alone topics fit for discussion with a woman she barely knew, a woman who was for all intents and purposes her _enemy_.

There was charged silence between the two women until Paz looked over to Robin, expectantly. "Do you plan on _ruling_ the witch world as a virgin queen forever, then? Elizabeth the First, reincarnated as a witch?" she asked, bluntly. Before Robin could answer, Paz's look towards her darkened somehow, became more serious. "There are ways around it, little Robin."

Warning bells were going off in Robin's head. For a split second, she feared that the woman was going to try to harm her. The look in her brown eyes, though, was something else. "Ways around what? I'm not certain I understand." The Spanish witch was advancing on Robin, and the young girl's heart was pounding. Pristinely manicured nails flicked the cigarette away with disinterest, brown eyes eyeing Robin like she was an after-dinner treat.

"You really _are_ a little girl, aren't you?" Paz asked rhetorically, one of her hands latching onto Robin's arm with a startling firmness. Robin froze as the older, slightly taller woman advanced to a point within Robin's space that was almost—that almost implied—

"I think you're rather adorable, really," Paz drawled, and Robin's eyes widened to the size of small moons when the perfect nails began to stroke across her cheek, towards her hair. "You're no Eve of Witches, though." Robin was frozen under the older woman's touch, which somehow seemed to repulse and bewitch her at the same time. "I'll give you a little bit of advice, _gatita_—go home and be the innocent little baby for your caretakers to fawn over. You have no place here. As a fellow woman, I feel it is my duty to tell you this. You are no match for those men in that room. Go home and forget this foolish Eve business."

Green eyes unblinking, Robin's slightly trembling lips fell open, searching for words. Paz's body was pressed against hers then, the warmth from her curves almost searing. The warning bells in Robin's head sounded like the bells of Notre Dame at that point. "I have no home to go back to," she answered finally, quietly. A hint of resolve and defiance managed to make itself present in her whispered declaration.

"Poor _gatita_," Paz breathed, her voice nearly hypnotic. "No home to go to. You're adorable, but it isn't going to garner you any protection here. If you insist on trying to prove yourself, I would suggest you hide behind your men and let them do it. You are not capable of doing _anything_ for yourself, I think."

Silence. A smirk. "I kind of like the idea of that."

Robin only had time for one more breath before the other woman's lips were on hers, firmly and insistently, smooth and slick and glossy against Robin's own nervous saliva-wetted ones. Her heart jumped up into her throat with a confused mixture of emotions, fear predominant among them—and the Spanish woman's tongue was inside of her startled, frozen mouth for only a second, enticingly yet repulsively.

And then it was over, and Paz was stepping back, smirking at the terrified, immobile Robin wickedly. "Capitulate and your home could be with me, _gatita_." She sashayed over to the double doors of the patio, hands resting on the door handles lightly, caressingly. "If you stay like you are now, I don't think I would mind that so much. It could be fun."

Robin's mind alternated between reeling and malfunctioning.

"But before you come inside, and before you sit yourself back down between your men and pretend to be capable," she murmured, "you'd do well to take that ridiculous look off your face and wipe the lipstick off your lips." Robin's hand moved robotically to her lips, wiping the residue of warm brownish-pink lipstick away.

Back inside, Robin having re-entered the flat a second after Paz, she sat back down on the loveseat next to Amon. Her face was open and discreetly startled but she refused to acknowledge the way Amon was studying her subtly, trying to figure out what was wrong with her. She'd just been kissed. Her first kiss.

And it had come from a woman who seemed more like a demon than a woman.

Repressing a shudder, Robin opened her ears to the conversation that was taking place among the men, ignoring Paz as she came around to stand behind the Finnish man Oskari's chair, leaning against it suggestively. "...modernization is they key." Reznik was speaking, his clipped Eastern European accent sounding businesslike. "Witches of old didn't realize they power they could have over simple humans, the power they wielded by the simple fact of their existence. Instead they hid away, cowering, trying to blend in and use their powers either for good or not use them at all."

Amon looked away from Robin and over to the committee head, eyes narrowed in thought. Robin looked over, as well. "How many times has the story been recorded in the annals of history? A witch, trying to use their powers for good, to serve the foolish, ignorant human population as a healer, or a shaman...then, the humans turn against the witch and burn them. This is foolishness. Why cater to humans?"

"Humans have ever feared what they do not understand," Donald, the old Scot, spoke up for perhaps the first time that evening through a cloud of expensive cigar smoke. "They go around with their little lanterns held high, trembling, and shoot whatever the lantern does not illuminate, whatever lives in the darkness."

"And furthermore," Reznik continued, steepling his fingers, "why cater to those who _cater_ to humans?" For a split second Robin could have sworn that he stared at her but it had happened so fast that she couldn't be sure. "That is weakness. That is for young, scared fledglings who can't stand on their own and seek to curry the favour of humans to stay alive."

Robin couldn't help but feel as if the man was talking directly to herself, Amon, and Trygve somehow.

"How do we, then, modernize?" Trygve asked of Reznik. Out of the corner of her eye, Robin noticed Paz staring at her, then staring at Amon.

"We play the humans' game, and become better than them at it," Donald spoke up again, wrinkly, pouched old face almost hiding his eyes. "They seek to control through fear, through laws, through money, through politics, through religion. They've done rather well thus far." He took an appreciative puff from his cigar, eyeing it with beady, gleaming orbs that were lost in his ancient face. "We are doing better."

The question that had been lurking on Robin's mind was suddenly vociferated by Amon. "And what of SOLOMON?"

"Not a concern of ours," Donald replied. "Perhaps a concern of others, but not of ours. They can be rather helpful, at times."

Amon's face was unmoving, grey eyes flat and intent. "_Helpful_." He watched the old man keenly. "In what manner?"

Reznik leaned forward, grinning. His face frightened Robin. "They're humans, mostly. And humans are _so_ easily manipulated, especially when frightened, or when presented with money or power."

Silence befell the room. Only Robin noticed Amon's tension, a telltale tightening of the cords and the muscles in his shoulders and neck. His fingers stroked his beard somewhat, ponderously. "The same can be said of some witches." The silence in the room thickened; Amon was tap-dancing on thin ice with his words. "What purpose can witches hope to achieve by even _manipulating_ SOLOMON? By frightening humans?"

The committee was looking at him as if he'd just grown a second head. Robin was frozen and Trygve stared at some object in space at his side, possibly wondering what the hell Amon was doing. "Shouldn't the focus of energy be _eliminating_ SOLOMON, not manipulating them?" Amon asked of Reznik pointedly, the two men staring each other down. "And what do you have to gain by even associating with them?"

It felt like the token awkward scene in a movie, in which a character had overstepped his bounds, and the room had fallen so silent that the viewer could hear the crickets chirping.

Without warning, Reznik's face melted into amusement and he began to laugh, loud and long. Amon continued to stare at him, obviously not very much amused himself. "Funny that an ex-Hunter should speak those words!" the Czech man managed between guffaws. "Why eliminate what serves us, what does not frighten us?" he asked Amon, once he'd started to calm. His severe face retained the unnerving smile. "Why bother using a baseball bat to swat at a fly?"

He looked at Robin, then, and Amon tensed so much that Robin could feel it moving through her mind, through the fabric of the loveseat. "Why bother eliminating the weaker members of a society when we've got foolish humans to do it for us?" Robin and the committee leader looked at each other for a moment, and cold realization sunk in when Robin realized he was insinuating something about _herself_, and SOLOMON attempting to eliminate her.

"Why do you want them to eliminate witches?" Robin queried softly, in subtle disbelief. "Aren't we all witches?"

"To varying degrees," Oskari replied, his accent so thick that it was difficult to understand him.

"SOLOMON thinks they're hurting the witch population at large by Hunting them, by picking them off," Julien spoke up, lounging in his chair fluidly, blue-green eyes looking at Robin from underneath lashes that seemed too long to be male. "They're just eliminating the weak. It's natural selection at a quickened pace."

Grinning, Paz leaned over the back of Oskari's chair, hands straying to the fairer man's shoulders. She looked at Robin, her eyes smoldering. "It saves us the task of having to get our hands dirty. Someday, SOLOMON will find themselves opposing an army of the strongest, and the best."

More silence befell the room, Trygve looking over to Amon and Robin with a look of warning on his face, as if to say _you are putting yourselves in over your heads, and you are taking me with you_.

Reznik leaned back in his chair, his face smug and eyes dark. "And when such time comes," he began, drawing the attention of the three non-committee members to him immediately, "those who have survived will need a strong leadership." He smiled at Robin, menacing and kind at once. "We are prepared to assume that role. We have been for some time. This is what we have been working for."

His eyes continued to bore into Robin's and she could have sworn that just for a fraction of a second, she heard a voice in her head that whispered _and the leadership does not include you_. She swallowed imperceptibly, wetting her dry throat. In no uncertain terms, Reznik was telling her to back off.

The door at the far end of the room opened quietly. The movement was enough to draw attention to it however, and Reznik turned in his chair suddenly towards the intrusion. The same smooth, robotic doorman from earlier that evening stood there, an envelope in his hand. "A message has come for you, sir. It is of utmost importance." Paz took initiative, hands sliding off Oskari's shoulders as she crossed the room to take the envelope. She nodded at the doorman and closed the door, moving to Reznik and handing the envelope to him. Amon and Robin looked at each other subtly as the intimidating man opened the envelope a peek and looked inside. Just after casting a very quick, meaningful glance at the old man Teodor, he looked to Amon and Robin brightly, then to Trygve.

"I am so sorry, friends," he said, "but a matter of great importance needs to be addressed immediately. I'm afraid that we shall have to call this delightful evening to an end." He stood as Paz, Oskari, and Julien looked at each other semi-secretly and moved towards the exit without even saying a word to the trio of outsiders. "Please forgive our rudeness. You are more than welcome to stay for the evening here, if you'd like, to save yourself the trip."

Robin, unusually, was the quickest on the draw in the speech department. "Thank you for the offer, but we needn't burden you with our presence this evening." She smiled at him, pointedly ignoring the way Teodor looked at her. "You have business to attend to; it's understandable that we have to leave now."

"Such a polite, gracious little girl," Teodor said, moving to his feet. He joined Rezik in looking down on Robin. "You remind me of women in my Romania."

Robin looked at him with her nicest smile, frantically trying to block out the imagery of a bloody box on a kitchen table, screaming children, and a woman holding herself, rocking back and forth. The imagery from the Romanian woman Robin had been made privy to in the witch world swam behind her eyes every time she looked at the old man. "Ah. I'm honoured."

And then he was looking at her—more like _through_ her, her green eyes little more than a thin changing screen that ill-concealed her naked thoughts behind. Panic seized a part of Robin. Numbly, she felt her hands being taken up between Teodor's own, gently, caressingly, as if he was a kind old grandfather sitting with his favourite granddaughter. "No, Robin—I _am_ honoured. So nice to see polite, smart girl again...so kind and good."

His smile turned knowing and Robin's heart skipped a beat, the jagged hands of disgust and fear digging nails into her heart and lungs.

"Your hands seek to do work greater than you," he intoned, smile eating into Robin's defenses, singing _I know you know_ without saying a word. "How honourable."

........................

Tensions in the Checker ran high. Robin was mute in the back seat, her hands gripping her thin arms through her heavy coat tightly, her body shivering despite the car's heater working overtime to make the interior warm. In the front seat, Trygve and Amon grew dangerously close to angry arguing.

"Those people are like witch _Nazis_," Amon stated flatly, his voice louder than usual. "You're telling me that we're supposed to somehow endear ourselves to people whose master plan is some sort of wide-spread witch _genocide_?" he asked of Trygve pointedly, who drove the car in terse silence. "I cannot believe that you'd even _associate_ with them, let alone ask me to and to drag Robin and my brother into the fray."

"We don't have a choice," Trygve answered, his voice moderated carefully to reign in disgruntlement.

Amon, in the front seat, looked to the blonde man fiercely. "_Bullshit_. How can you sit there? How can you sit there in the same room with those people, and watch them tell us to our faces that we're not worthy of living? How can you listen to them implying that we are weak, that we run for a reason?" Amon's voice was steadily rising, and Robin was wincing. "How can you let them tell us in more or less words that they can and will _kill_ us if they see fit?" he finished, voice betraying helpless rage.

Trygve's control over his own anger snapped. "How could you have sat there and called them out, Amon?" he growled back, maneuvering the large vehicle through traffic with intensity. "I bow to them because I have _no other choice_. These people have more power than you think—they could _easily_ kill us all with—"

A noise like the growl of a dog came from Amon. "Power! You speak of their power continually, but so far you haven't done much explaining." He looked at Trygve pointedly, the ferocity of his gaze not lost in the dark of the vehicle. "So far we've been completely in the dark about who these people are, what their power is, and what they do. If you want me to know my place you'd better start giving me some information."

"They work through governments and they work through SOLOMON. They use money and influence to eliminate those who oppose them, those who cross them." Hands pounded on the steering wheel in frustration. "And damnit, I don't know much more! You've seen it yourself, now—they're completely insane. I have no idea what their larger plan is. I only know that it isn't _right_, and that I feel obligated to do something about it. Witches turning against each other, witches killing other witches for sport or whatever it is they're doing—I only know that this serves SOLOMON and so-called 'humans' more than it serves witches. I curry their favour because it puts off the day that my family or my friends will come into danger, and it gives me time to try to work against them, to formulate a plan."

Silence reigned, and Robin retreated further into herself in the backseat, unhappy at the argument ensuing in the car.

Amon sighed heavily, his foul mood radiating like an aura around him. "I don't _fucking_ believe this," he said, to no one in particular. "Not only do we have to worry about concealing ourselves from SOLOMON now—which may incidentally be manipulated, to some extent, by this committee of psychopaths—but we have to worry about being eliminated in some sort of witch holocaust." He rubbed his gloved hands into his eyes. "_Wonderful_."

"You would do well not to provoke them," Trygve said to Amon, lowly, after a long spell of charged silence.

"Would I?" Amon asked in a fury. His hand indicated Robin in the backseat, jabbing through the air. "Would I do better to just lie down and let them roll right over me, straight to Robin? Straight to my brother, and whoever else is around? Should I just back down gracefully, simpering apologies, and let them establish some kind of bizarre witch-Reich? Am I supposed to just accept their superior rule and live the rest of my life in fear of people that I can't even manage to conjure an iota of respect for?"

"I don't fucking know!" Trygve shouted in an outburst. "For now, you should just work on trying not to open your mouth and prove something, and getting everyone around you killed! That's a start!"

........................

Nagira's sleep had been uneasy and generally shitty. Trygve, Amon, and Robin had returned to the house the evening prior irritated and unnerved, and Nagira hadn't been able to get a word out of either Robin or Trygve at all. Robin had actually gone immediately up the stairs and sequestered herself in her room, not emerging for the rest of the evening.

After sitting in the parlor with Nagira and Finn for a bit, Amon had finally recounted some of the evening's events at the dinner. Finn didn't seem startled by Amon's account of the committee members; in fact, he'd shrugged and said something heavy with the effect of nonchalance.

"That's those assholes for you," Finn's words had been. "They're completely nuts and they're on some sort of genetic-supremacy-mission or something. They're like the Italian mafia meets American politics meets the Gestapo. They don't like you, you die. You're weak, you die. You fuck around in their political affairs, you die. You look at them wrong, you die. It's a lose-lose situation, and the odds just keep getting worse."

It hadn't sounded very good to Nagira at all, and he sympathized with his baby brother, who was seething with helpless, defenseless rage; like a cornered cat surrounded by dogs. Nagira also lamented his own uselessness, not even allowed to attend the dinner with the others by some freak twist of genetic misfortune. Humans. Humans and witches. Weren't they the same thing? Witches _were_ humans, with a little genetic tweaking. It wasn't as if they didn't have the same weaknesses and emotions, the same shortcomings and potentials.

Nagira recalled Amon mentioning to him, once, that Toudou—Robin's long-dead father (or father-figure, rather, creator, what have you)—had seen witches as a species altogether different from humans; a race of Gods who'd since lost their powers and needed to regain them.

Lying there in bed, the morning just starting to peep through the curtains, Nagira folded his hands behind his head and thought. He wasn't entirely certain that he believed the whole witches-as-Gods theory. He thought about Robin, the world's first test-tube witch. Toudou had done a good job; that was to be sure. Not only was Robin becoming exponentially more powerful—just like Toudou had intended for her to do—but he'd also succeeded in creating the most human non-human Nagira had ever met. It was unreal to him, at times, to look at little Robin and know that she didn't necessarily have _parents_, per se; that she'd had a woman who'd borne her and a man who'd contributed his seed, but that she'd been scientifically altered and preened until she was just right.

When Nagira thought of science experiments involving humans, he pictured Frankensteins and Swamp Men; human experiments gone horribly wrong; deformed things with two heads and tentacles for legs that snuck up on horny teenagers in cars and killed them. He didn't envision Robin, who was probably the most perfect person he'd ever met. Maybe more people needed to be genetically altered before birth. It could stand to make the world a better place.

At times, Nagira even allowed himself to think far into the hopeful future, one in which his baby brother would stop being such a stubborn asshole, one in which he and Robin didn't have to run for their lives or look over their shoulders all the time. He pondered the existence of a child between Amon and Robin, and how it would be in many ways, a fulfillment of Toudou's hope for witches. A child whom would more than likely inherit the abilities of its two parents, packing all the powers of its mother and its father in one body, making it quite possibly the most perfect witch _ever_. An all-powerful, intelligent, attractive child with perfect senses and the ability to reach into the minds of others...such a child could be either a beacon of hope or an incredible danger to the world, depending upon what happened and who came into contact with him.

The notion of such a child was frightening and exciting at the same time. Nagira only hoped that such an imagined child would inherit its mother's bright, kind disposition as opposed to its father's sullen one, but perhaps glean a bit of its father's savvy and wit to keep it alive and on top as opposed to its mother's naivety.

The sound of a door opening swiftly outside of Nagira's room stirred him from his early morning thoughts and compelled him to rise from his bed. He opened his own door and poked his head out, spying his brother standing in the doorway to his room, eyes squinted and head cocked slightly like a hunting dog listening for the faraway call of birds.

"What?" Nagira hissed from his doorway, regarding his brother oddly.

Amon's face turned dark and serious. "I hear crying. And screaming. I thought it was Robin, at first, but then I realized it was coming..." He trailed off as the two brothers beheld a brown-haired girl clad all in black pounding up the main staircase, then tearing down the hallway in the opposite direction. Close behind her was Finn, likewise moving at breakneck speed towards a small staircase at the very opposite end of the hallway. The two running figures appeared to have not even noticed the brothers in the doorways.

"What the hell is that all about?" Nagira managed, incredulously. He opened his door wider and stepped out slightly, looking down the hallway. "Is there a two-for-one sale going on upstairs or something?"

"_Shhhsh_." Amon growled, swatting a hand at his brother. His face implied intense concentration for a few seconds, and then he relaxed somewhat and looked over to Nagira. "There's more than one person hollering up there. Something isn't right."

Face growing taut and wary immediately, Nagira set his jaw. "You don't think there's been an intruder, do you?" The look exchanged between himself and Amon said that they'd both been thinking and perhaps fearing the same thing; an intrusion from either SOLOMON or the committee, somehow, perhaps with violent connotations.

The sounds of footfalls pounding around on the ceilings above their heads came down through the air, and both men looked up.

Seconds later Robin's door opened quietly, revealing a mussy and sleep-haggard figure that was moderately recognizable as the girl herself. She rubbed at her head as if it ached, and closed her eyes, some sort of sorrow etched across her still-sleepy features.

"There's nothing we can do," she murmured, still massaging her temple. "It's Sigrún."

Nagira blanched, looking to Robin urgently. "She's...dead?" he pressed, gravely.

Robin shook her head. "No. But her child is. She's miscarried." With that announcement, Robin turned slowly, back hunching, and shuffled half-heartedly back into her room and closed the door gently.

Exchanging a startled look, blanketing silence fell between the men in the hallway as the sounds of feet continued on the ceiling above them. Eventually Amon released a heavy breath as if he'd been holding it in, and Nagira rubbed at his forehead, eyes wide in disbelief.

"Well, _shit_," the lawyer managed. "It's shaping up to be a great day already. Hell." Uncaringly, he reached into his room blindly, fumbling at the table by the door for a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. He lit up in the hallway, knowing he wasn't supposed to, but figuring that no one would care very much at the moment. He let out a long, large cloud of smoke and ran a hand through his disarrayed hair.

"A great day, indeed," he murmured through smoke to his taciturn brother, who simply leaned against the doorframe of his bedroom, hand rubbing at his beard and eyes staring unfocused at the carpet at their feet.


	19. Breaking The Girl

NOTE: Some of the views expressed by Robin in this particular chapter, in association with her incident with Paz in the previous chapter, do not reflect any personal views. I personally have nothing against sexual activity between women (or men, for that matter—do you hear me, America, WHAT THE FUCK)…but bear in mind the environment Robin was raised in. Raised in a convent, where most any kind of sexual activity would be regarded as a sin—imagine her feelings of deviance and sin after having been kissed by a woman. I imagine she'd feel pretty screwed-up, eh? So, yeah. Don't read anything into my renditions of Robin's reactions and thoughts; it's just how I would see someone of Robin's beliefs and character responding.

………………………

The house was silent and gloomy, and running high with tensions that no one needed to voice; the silence in and of itself spoke volumes. The occupants of the house packed themselves away into their own little worlds in different rooms; Trygve, his family, and his maids remaining upstairs in seclusion—the seclusion interrupted only by the appearance of a doctor at the door, sporting a black leather bag and a derby hat, typically old-guard European. Some time later the doctor came back down the stairs into the main room, nodded to the three strangers from Japan who had gathered, awkwardly, to watch his departure, perhaps hoping to gather some sort of information from him.

Not even Amon had been blunt enough to speak up and ask for information. It was evident enough to all that something very bad had happened upstairs, that morning. It didn't need to be rehashed by asking about it.

Tomb-like silence continued. Amon and Nagira settled in the parlor, the stillness of the room and their own eerie muteness making it more like a mausoleum than a parlor. Robin, feeling saddened, depressed, vaguely violated, and somewhat frightened (the last two in association with her meeting with the committee the night prior), ambled about the house aimlessly for a bit before deciding that she would go outside for a walk around the grounds. Her stomach rumbled bitterly but she couldn't summon the nerve or the energy to go into the house kitchen and look for food.

She slipped out the front door without knocking on the closed parlor door to alert her guardians where she was going. Outside, the air was obtrusively cold, permeating her layers of clothing and sinking into her flesh, and the sky spoke of precipitation violence to come—rain, sleet, snow. Fog laid low across the earth like a whimpering, abused pet, creeping slowly across the frozen grass and undergrowth.

Her eyes were glazing as she stared blankly at her surroundings from the impressive front step. Remembering that she had come out to walk, she began to move her feet and moved off into the light forest near the house. Time for thought was needed.

Compiling a mental summary, Robin's brain worked quietly within her skull to assess the damage that had accumulated over the last day and a half or so. First and foremost, Sigrún had lost her child—so early in pregnancy that it had probably just occurred as a large movement of blood; Robin remembered living at the convent and seeing the poor local country girls coming to the sisters, crying and wailing about their lost children, not knowing what else to do while covered in blood and unable to go back to their fathers. Secondly, there was the pressing issue of the group of witches that formed the committee, with their plans for what Robin could only term as murder; a slaughtering of innocents simply because they weren't _good_ enough. Thirdly was the obvious rift between Trygve and Amon that had begun the evening prior in the vehicle; Trygve trying to keep himself and his family safe and Amon unused to having to bow to _anyone_ that he didn't at least respect, in some way. Recalling the ride back to the house, Robin remembered that watching Amon and Trygve fight from the backseat must have been like what a young child watching their parents argue was like. She'd felt small and helpless, and sad, yet had been unable to speak up and do anything to stop them.

All of these issues were completely aside from what she herself was feeling internally, issues that didn't so much pertain to the group as they did specifically to _her_. She experienced a curious double violation of her mind and her body. Robin wondered how the old man Teodor could _know_ about her knowledge of the unknown deaths, so many years ago, on St. Valentine's Day. One thing was certain, though, the man _knew. _She'd felt him obtaining the information from her as plainly as if she was a file cabinet the night before, and the only conclusion that Robin could come up with was that the Romanian had some sort of scrying power. He'd touched her hands, even though there was no need for him to, and that's when she'd felt him seeing through all her defenses as if they were tissue paper.

That and her obvious and sudden aversion to him upon meeting him had probably led him to suspect her of something. Sighing to herself as she picked her way up a particularly steep, wet, icy hill, Robin knew that she was going to have to learn to conceal her emotions better. Perhaps if she hadn't acted so spooked by Teodor in the first place, he never would have suspected her of a thing. But now it was clear that he'd learned of her knowledge, and that he was connected to it somehow.

The fact that the old man she'd dined with could have been ruthless and cruel enough to cut off people's hands and send them to their families didn't exactly sit easily on Robin's consciousness.

Bodily, Robin felt repugnant and immoral. She could have backed away from the woman Paz, could have turned away, could have removed herself from the situation before it'd come to…had the older woman been trying to _seduce_ her? Instead she had stood paralyzed by fear and intimidated out of her skin, and had allowed herself to be…used? Tarnished? Robin's mind reeled with the implications of having carnal knowledge of a woman, the ultimate sin and wrong that she had committed by even failing to defend herself against such an act. The svelte body walking through the forest shuddered under all the layers of clothing, and felt a chill that could not have been chased away by any warmth.

Paz, while beautiful and powerful, seemed as a snake to Robin. The image of her hands draped over the witch Oskari's shoulders, the memory of the way Paz had leaned against his chair, the way the brown eyes had studied Robin and Amon knowingly…and most of all, the remembrance of her dominance of Robin's body left a powerfully sour taste in the blonde's mouth.

Flopping down on the frozen, damp earth beneath a tree, Robin wrapped her arms around her knees fiercely and ignored the way the chill worked its way through her body from the earth up. The sour taste in her mouth was mutating into over-salivation, and most un-ladylike but not caring, Robin turned her head to the side and spit. She repeated this process several times, her mind still crowded with thoughts of sins committed and the vile, sinuous image of the Spanish woman who'd kissed her.

Abruptly, she became aware of the fact that she was going to vomit. Retching brought nothing, due to the empty state of her stomach, and in the end she leaned back against the tree feeling sore and breathless, her stomach now truly empty of _everything,_ bile included. Useless, tired hands flopped down to her sides, nails clutching into the dirt lightly.

Minutes later, that was how Amon found her. He looked down at her from a distance, and she rolled her head over on a mostly-limp neck to look up at him. He swallowed.

"We were wondering where you had gone," he began. "I thought I would come to look for you outside since your coat was gone. Nagira was searching the house."

Words stuck in her dry throat. "I'm on a walk."

He nodded, hands stuck into the pockets of his overcoat. "Although you appear to be sitting now. Not much of a walk, is it?"

Casting her eyes to the trees across from her and away from Amon, Robin looked around vapidly. "How did you find me?" she queried, numbly.

"I walked until I found your footprints. When I lost track of those I followed your scent."

Still staring at the trunks of the trees across from her, displacing earth with her frozen-numb fingers, Robin nodded. "How did you find my footprints?"

"I asked myself where I would go if I was Robin." He drew closer to her and crouched next to her, looking at her. "You told me once that you liked to walk among trees. It made you feel humble and small."

Against her will, Robin's brows knit together as she stared, mouth crinkling. "When did I say that?"

"A long time ago. We were in the United States." He looked down at his feet, then up at the tops of the trees, squinting slightly. "I'm not certain why I remembered."

"I'm not either." She removed her fingers from the dirt and brushed them off on her skirt, the underside of her nails remaining gritty and black with soil. Turning towards him again, she blinked. They looked at each other for a moment.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked her eventually, blunt but careful. As always, he was direct with his words, but his voice wasn't the usual clipped baritone that it normally was.

Squirming, Robin sat up some. "I…threw up."

Amon's eyebrows rose slightly as if asking to confirm the statement. "Are you ill?"

Robin sighed and pushed herself to her feet, leaving Amon to look up at her from his crouched position on the ground. "No. I'm disgusted." Her formerly blank face turned bitter and pensive, staring down at the ground like it had done something wrong. "There was nothing in my stomach to come back up, anyway."

Standing, Amon leaned against the tree that Robin had previously been sitting against until she'd stood. He folded his arms over his chest, black-gloved hands gripping his upper arms. "Why are you disgusted?" his voice was calm, even; it reminded Robin of a psychologist speaking to a patient.

She looked up at him, timidly. "You know what a sin of omission is, right? What it would be?" Despite the fact that Amon nodded at her, she went ahead and defined it anyway. "I didn't actively _engage_ in anything, I just didn't prevent it."

He looked at her for a second, reading her face. "Robin, if you're talking about Sigrún's baby, there is absolutely nothing you could have done. Just because you…feel like you knew about it in advance doesn't mean that you were obligated—or that you could have—prevented it."

"No, no." Robin's head shook vehemently and the horrible chill spread throughout her body again. Eyes downcast, her arms wrapped around her middle and her bony hips, Robin wet her dry lips. "This was something I could have stopped. I could have moved away. I could have prevented it. Instead…I did nothing. Part of me wonders if it wasn't because I somehow _wanted_ it to happen, in a dark, horrible part of me."

The very _air_ around Amon seemed to darken and intensify. He looked at Robin piercingly, searchingly, his jaw rigid beneath his beard. "Robin." That was all he said for a moment, and his next words seemed very carefully spoken. "Did someone do something to you?" he asked, flatly.

Robin was silent.

"Robin," Amon said again, his voice solemn. "Did someone _do_ something to you?" His hands were gripping his arms more tightly.

"A kiss," she began, and Amon stiffened even more. "Last night, when I left the room to go outdoors with Paz, she…" Robin trailed off, wondering if she should have even told him. It was vile, and disgusting, and spoke of a lack of willpower and resistance on her part. Why hadn't she just left the balcony? "…we were talking, and she kissed me. She told me that I was helpless, that I should go home and forget about all of this…"

Amon was looking at her with the closest look to blatant shock that she'd ever seen on his face before.

"…she was so…" Robin clenched her fists against her sides, shrinking into herself. "…it was so _disgusting_. The things she said, the way she acted…she seemed more like a devil than a person. And I let her _touch_ me. I just stood there. I did nothing; I didn't even try to stop myself from letting myself be a part of such sinful conduct…to know the flesh of the same sex, carnally…"

The man across from her was still in shock. "That woman kissed you?" His face was enraged, set in stone. "That woman even _dared_ to touch you?"

Slowly, shell-shocked, Robin's hands moved from her sides to her face to press against her cheeks. "I can't believe what I've done," the young witch whispered, staring down at her feet. "I just…"

The sounds of heavy boots moving against the ground signaled Amon's movement, his gloved hands reaching out for Robin's huddled body. She shuddered and cringed against his touch, which made it withdraw momentarily as if he'd been burned by a candle flame, but then it alit upon her arms again with certainty and drew her to him, pressing her face in against the heavy black wool of his overcoat. "You've done nothing." His foggy breath was warm on the crown of her fair head. "That miserable woman overstepped her boundaries and none of it is your fault, at all." His arms remained tight around her as her own came up to clutch delicately at the fabric of his coat on his back. "I should have gone outside with you. I am sorry. I don't know what I was thinking, allowing you to go off by yourself with—" He cut himself off, voice shaking with seething anger. "I am so sorry, Robin. I shouldn't have let something like this happen."

The warmth and solidity of Amon's body against her own reminded her of how, perhaps, she did not deserve such kindness, how something that seemed so right might have been a sin as well. Her rebellious mind and body, despite their torment, squelched down the notion that perhaps she'd been sinful all along as she leaned into Amon further, limply.

"I'm sorry." Amon's gloved hands were tangling in tendrils of her pinned-back hair, stroking lightly at her neck. "Mark me here, Robin—I will never let _anything_ like that happen to you ever again. I should never have left you alone with our enemies."

Robin tried to look up at him, to verbally deny that any part of it had been his fault at all, but her gripped her tighter—the closeness of the embrace physical pain bordering on emotional pleasure—and held her head against him firmly. "And I swear that the next person who _ever_ dare to do something like that to you again—whether they are man or woman—will have their throat ripped out by my own bare hands."

"Okay," a weak, breathy reply; that was all Robin could manage. Did she deserve such protection and comfort? Her mind alternately bounced between asking herself that same question and wondering if the comfort she received from Amon, if the way she felt about him was a sin as well. Squeezing her eyes shut, she shuddered. It couldn't be; it felt so different and _good_, what she felt for Amon. They'd been brought together as a warden and a ward, and the basis of their relationship—whatever there was—had therefore been good, started in good intent. Amon had merely wanted to protect her, from others and herself.

_And yet you stared like a child at a movie show the first time you saw him, the first time you passed him in the hallway of Harry's. You WANTED him before you could even have known what his intentions were at all, if any—you didn't even know who he was, then, he was just a stranger! Some stranger that you gawked at like a common whore!_

Robin shuddered again and Amon's arms tightened yet more around her, putting a pressure on Robin's body that was unpleasant and pleasant all at once. It was what she deserved for even indulging herself in such actions.

They stood together like that in the middle of the cold outdoors for longer than was needed for simple comfort.

………………………………….

Amon, feeling like a benevolent father figure, had ushered Robin into the dining room upon their return to the house. Robin was reticent, small, somehow _broken_. Watching her through the open door, he tried to soften his face into the most comforting look he was capable of. She stared back at him blankly.

"Why don't you go into the kitchen and fix yourself something to eat?" he suggested. "It would help to calm your stomach, and I'm sure no one would mind. The maids are a bit too busy today to tend to meals…I don't think it would be considered rude if you fed yourself, today."

She nodded, and turned to move into the kitchen through the door slowly. Amon watched her and then watched the kitchen door close, and waited until he heard the sounds of a fridge door opening. Then he turned and stalked back to the parlor, opening the door forcefully. Nagira looked at him from across the room, hands on his hips.

"So she was outside, huh?" he said, his face becoming befuddled at the rage on Amon's. "What happened?"

Amon crossed the room and stood near the fireplace, which Nagira had lit in order to perhaps provide the room with something resembling light and warmth. He was silent, arms folded over his chest, and Nagira quirked an eyebrow. "_What_?" he asked of his irate brother.

"I let something happen. I let something happen to Robin." Amon was staring down into the fire, cheek ticking. "I let something really _fucked up_ happen to Robin."

Nagira was next to Amon at that point, his face urgent and demanding. "_What_? What? Would you just spit it out and quit being so damned cryptic all the time?"

"Last night at the dinner I let her go outside, by herself, with this woman—a member of the committee," Amon said, lowly. "Just now outside Robin tells me that this woman _kissed _her, and said things to her or—" Amon cleared his throat and continued to stare into the fire. "I don't know. I guess this woman more or less forced herself on Robin."

Nagira's face registered the same shock that his brother's had in the forest, at Robin's admission. "A woman? Are you kidding?" There was silence from Amon. "_Why_?"

Amon looked over to Nagira, grey eyes meeting Japanese brown. "I don't know! Maybe because everyone on this so-called committee is an absolutely threatening sociopath!" Nagira looked away from his brother and down into the fireplace himself, folding his arms over his chest in what could have been an exactly identical manner to Amon. "In any case, it happened. It shouldn't have happened. What the hell was I thinking, letting Robin go off by herself with someone who is opposed to our very existence?" Amon's eyebrows lowered, his head shaking slightly. "That woman could have—Christ, I don't know, tossedRobin _off the balcony_. What's worse is that I would have just been sitting inside obliviously."

Nagira was looking at Amon again, intently. "This wasn't your fault, Amon. This could have happened no matter what. I mean, not like this is much of a comfort, but that's something that could have happened here in this _house_. You can't watch Robin every single second of the day. You can't protect her from everything. You shouldn't blame yourself, buddy—"

Amon made a noise like a scoff, looking disgusted with himself. "Well, she certainly blames _herself_ for what happened, even though she's perhaps the least at fault of anyone. And—" Amon's face turned bitter, his eyes staring off unfocused into the fire. "—I look at her and I see the look in her eyes and I _know_ that I failed, somehow. God, Syunji, I feel like a worthless—"

Both brothers turned to the door as it opened quietly and somewhat meekly, and Robin's faded maize head poked into the room, her eyes wide and questioning. "Um. I…made lunch." A hand holding a plate of what appeared to be sandwiches appeared from around the door to join Robin's questioning face. "I don't know if either of you have eaten yet, but there were enough things in the kitchen to make a couple of sandwiches…"

Amon appeared to have lost use of his vocal cords, so Nagira slapped a cheery look on his face and clapped his hands together. "Great! I'm so damn hungry that I was getting ready to cannibalize Amon. You saved the day, kiddo." Robin, a flickering little smile like the sun trying to break through clouds, came into the room with her plate of sandwiches. "Little Robin, bringer of joy and sandwiches!"

Robin was blushing then. "Well, I don't know about joy…they're not all that great of sandwiches."

Nagira didn't waste time, picking one up and taking a large bite of it. "Ah, cucumbers. Hats off to the chef."

The blush intensified as Robin preened her sandwiches, making sure they were all perfect. Amon had come over from the fireplace in interest to inspect said sandwiches. "I…couldn't find any loose meat around anywhere, only whole hams and whatnot. There's only vegetables and cheese on them," Robin explained, pointing at the sandwiches.

"And I got the one with the most cucumbers," Nagira sang gleefully around a mouthful of food. Amon looked over at him in momentary disgust. "I _love_ cucumbers."

"We're Japanese," Amon said to Robin, even if he wasn't entirely. "I don't think you'll see us complaining about the lack of meat." He took up one of the sandwiches and took a bite, and after he'd finished chewing his bite and swallowed it, offered Robin a ghost of a smile. "Bean sprouts. They're better than cucumbers any day."

It was amazing how a little thing like complimenting Robin on her sandwiches could get such a big reaction—the sun of her smile breaking through the clouds of uncertainty and sadness on her face, lighting up the whole room.

……………………………

Some hours later, a haggard looking Finn came tromping down the main staircase. Amon, hearing piqued by the sounds of feet on stairs, looked out from the parlor where he, Nagira, and Robin had spent most of the day sequestered. Not too long ago Robin had gone off into the kitchen by herself, her confidence spurred by the success of her sandwiches that morning, to prepare some kind of dinner. Finn looked over at Amon, head shaking slowly.

He entered the room and took a seat next to Nagira, and then thought better of it and walked to a cabinet in the corner. With muted triumph he opened the cabinet to reveal a television which he turned on via a remote. To the other two men's shock, the TV was actually functional, with cable service.

"What a day," Finn said, flopping back next to Nagira. "I just want to sit down and let some TV numb my mind." He blinked. "As if it weren't already numb enough."

Nagira looked over at the American. "How's Sigrún? And Trygve?"

Finn let out a breath. "Sigrún's in pretty bad shape. She's mostly fine, physically, but mentally…not so hot. Tryg's pretty torn up, too. They're both convinced…"

Silence filled by the sounds of some sort of Danish comedy program ensued.

"…bah. I shouldn't talk about it," Finn said dismissively. "It's not really any of my business, I guess—"

"They feel guilty, don't they?" Amon broke in, in monotone. "They think they deserved it for what they did to Gróa." Finn looked over to Amon in disbelief, immobile for a moment, and then he nodded.

"Yeah. It's sad." His eyes narrowed as he stared at the television, as if in thought. "And to them, it's like Eirikur is the evidence, or something…I don't know." Finn began to flip channels, seeking a distraction. "Nevermind. I don't know why I'm talking about it. I guess…it's just kind of sad to me, too. I'm not exactly _closely _related to Siggy and Tryg, but they're still my family, and I don't like seeing them all torn up like this."

More silence filled the room; Amon not sure what to say, and Nagira mostly thinking about the situation. Finn, true to his words moments ago, appeared to be immersing himself in the television until he found something that he could get English subtitles with. It was some kind of documentary about cathedrals in Europe. Amon rose a few moments later.

"I suppose I'd better inform Robin that there'll be someone else for dinner." With that he left the room and Nagira and Finn sat in silence. Lighting a cigarette, Nagira discreetly stole a peek at his American companion's face. The face was frowning, slightly, staring at the television screen as if it was the only thing in the room.

Nagira knew how it was to feel like that, to watch family members in grief, to watch them in despair—even if they weren't full family members. Memories of Amon as a small boy came to Nagira unbidden; a stranger in a strange land, plucked from the life with his mother he'd known in Europe and sent to live with a father who regarded him as a reminder of his crazy, now dead ex-wife. At first Amon had refused to speak Japanese, refused to take his shoes off before entering the house, refused to eat with chopsticks, and wanted nothing to do with the rest of the family. Nagira's own mother had tried repeatedly to reach out to a shattered child-Amon, only to be rebuffed time and time again.

The shattered child-turned-man entered the room as if on cue and Nagira turned his head to look at Amon, who hovered near the doorway. His baby brother looked slightly…astounded.

"Robin's lending herself to quixotic pursuits in the kitchen," Amon explained, scratching at the back of his head lightly. "I never thought I'd meet someone who needed help in the kitchen more than myself, but I suppose…" He looked as if he felt very odd speaking the words that he was. "…I had better go assist in the kitchen."

Finn managed a half-hearted, absorbed in the TV snicker. "What's she doing in there? Getting pancakes stuck to the ceiling?"

Amon blinked. "No. But she is trying to cut a tomato with a knife about this big." He made a space between his two hands that indicated nothing less than a medium-sized meat cleaver.

"As chief warden, it's your duty to make sure no Robin-fingers end up in my meal," Nagira said with a chortle, turning back to the TV. "And make sure none of _your_ fingers end up in it, either."

………………………………

Reznik Stojespal was multitasking. Over the years he'd grown exceptionally adept at juggling three or four phone calls at once while reading letters and or holding conversations with someone in the room.

At one point in time, it had been difficult for him to do so while Paz Loera Ayala was in the room, but now the woman was more of a familiar, nagging presence than an excitement. He looked at her then across his desk, staring back at him with her brown eyes that could have easily tricked someone into thinking they were of the big, brown, innocent variety. He knew better.

In his ear, Julien Torrilhon informed him of the fact that the Icelandic woman, Gróa Guðmundsdóttir, had finally been discovered dead in her home, along with two dead men. The men were SOLOMON agents, of course—they all knew this, and so did miserable little Robin Sena and her cohorts—but the public at large didn't know that. For now, the crime was being labeled as some sort of bizarre ritual killing involving drugs and a crossed lover.

Julien was, as usual, back in his home country of France, where he always was unless someone needed him desperately. "So SOLOMON is stepping in to _assist_ the Icelandic police with their investigation?" Reznik queried, watching Paz pace the room in exasperation.

"Yes. They don't know it's SOLOMON—remember, not allowed in the country anymore—but they are." Julien's voice chuckled slightly. "And as far as I know, Trygve and his wife are simply trying to ignore the fact that the woman's dead at all. I don't know if they would even be particularly interested to discover that her body's finally been discovered."

Running a hand over his close-cropped hair, Reznik leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on his desk. "I think it's agreed that this was the last time we send SOLOMON's pathetic little Hunters out to do our dirty work, Julien. They managed to kill the woman—which is of absolutely _no_ consequence to anything—but they seem to have neglected to get rid of our new friends."

A sigh came from the other line. "I practically put the loaded guns right into SOLOMON's eager hands. I'm not certain how they managed to botch the whole thing. Next time—"

"There's not going to be a next time." Reznik watched Paz light a cigarette in agitation, blowing her smoke uncaringly into the air of his office, where no smoking was supposed to occur. "I'm done with relying on SOLOMON to take care of this problem. If you want something done right, you've got to do it yourself. Of course, we can count on SOLOMON for temporary distractions to our new friends—they are wanted people, after all. But as for sending SOLOMON out after them, deliberately…I'm done with it." His face turned dark. "And I'm rather disappointed in your reliance upon those Catholic fools."

Paz was grinning, watching Reznik lay into Julien. Both of them could almost envision the thin Frenchman swallowing hard, his adam's apple bobbing up and down. "I'm sorry. I only thought it best at the time, and I did not think they would fail so—"

Paz scoffed, by this time draped over Reznik's shoulder to hear Julien's tinny voice through the earpiece of the phone. "Bah! Those Hunters couldn't even kill two witches and a _human_ in a snowbound house. It should have been like walking right into a trap. How can _anyone_ possibly screw something like that up?"

Julien was tittering on the other line and Reznik shooed Paz away in semi-irritation. Bristling, the woman sauntered away. "Has there been any word from the house?"

An audible sigh issued forth from the other line; Julien was probably more than relieved that Reznik had decided to stop taxing him about SOLOMON's failures. "Not yet. The word is that Sigrún is not well. Aside from the usual tales of stupid, drunken witches, I haven't heard anything else."

Reznik watched Paz, who leaned back against a chair and watched him. He didn't find her as interesting as he once had, but once in a while she was at least interesting enough to give a second look, or perhaps a second touch. As if sensing his thoughts, one perfectly groomed eyebrow arched upwards suggestively and her lips smirked. "Keep listening. I have some other things to attend to now…people have been less wont to stay in their places ever since the rumour of Robin Sena's existence was confirmed. Her very existence makes life tough for us."

"I know." Julien commiserated. The fool could barely stay on top of things in his own home country, let alone perform functionally as a member of the group. Reznik hung up without another word.

There were much more important things to tend to. Robin Sena, upstart street punk witches who decided they didn't have to stick to contracts anymore, and the Spaniard across the room from him were all more pressing issues at the moment.

……………………….

"They got their start, _oddly_ enough, way back at the beginning of World War II."

Amon and Nagira sat sternly, in analytical silence as Finn spoke. Robin leaned forward in her chair eagerly, hoping that some of the answers to the questions she'd formed in her mind would be mentioned.

"I'm not entirely certain how that happened; there's a couple of different stories about the matter. I've heard that there were various families from all over Europe who were financially involved with the Nazis, I've heard that the Nazis had some sort of super-secret witch project going on, I've heard that their family members _were_ Nazis. Who knows?" Finn shrugged, leaning back in his chair. He put his feet up on the dinner table. "Whatever the case was, that's when the ties with SOLOMON started as well, since good old Pius was in kind of tight with the Nazis, anyway. Far as anyone can tell, the beginnings of the committee were just some old bourgeoisie bastards who were witches, kind of involved in organized crime, and just happened to be in the right spot at the right time."

"If they were linked with the Nazis, how did they escape persecution at the end of the war?" Nagira asked, lighting a cigarette. Today, and today only, the whole house seemed to be a smoking zone.

"I'm assuming that most of them covered their asses really well or did what all good Nazis did after the war—fled to South America for a while. I'm not certain. It was at this point that the committee started to expand its interests," Finn narrated, using his hands to speak. "Russia. Well, more specifically, Russia and some of the countries that would become the Eastern Bloc. They started getting involved with the Communist government and keeping the Iron Curtain maintained. And I'm guessing they were making themselves rich and fat in the process."

Robin, shaking her head slightly, stared down at her empty dinner plate. "But _why_? Why were they doing all of this? I do not understand that part. What was their goal?"

Finn looked at her meaningfully; a trifle sadly. "I don't know. Sometimes people are just inherently screwed up, I guess." He sighed before continuing. "The organized crime bit continued on as well, and that was the way things ran for a while…SOLOMON popped in here and there, because they were witches, but I guess the old committee always had some sort of upper hand to keep SOLOMON off their back—money, military might, something. I don't know. It's all kind of foggy."

Amon's face was contorted with thought; his eyes spoke of attempts to make meaningful connections, but failing. "Perhaps due to the fact that the Church was still trying to rid itself of connections to the Nazi regime—perhaps that's why SOLOMON didn't press them too firmly? Perhaps some of the committee members were SOLOMON members themselves?"

Again, Finn shrugged and looked at a loss. "I have no idea. I'm telling you all I know, here, and it's still probably not going to make any sense after that. There's a big gap in my knowledge of their history, but this is the part that'll probably interest you the most."

All three people at the dinner table aside from Finn perked up, listening intently.

"At some point, about seventeen years ago, the committee became _very_ interested in the concepts of genetic manipulation. Why, I'm not certain. Possibly because they wanted to figure out how to tamper with their _own_ genetic code, that of their children, that of the population at large, _whatever_. Somehow, somewhere, the committee—the older members, mind you, of which there are only three left—made contact with SOLOMON somehow, and learned that SOLOMON had kind of been tampering with that kind of stuff themselves, through a man in Japan."

The faces of Nagira and Amon grew hesitant, as if something had just dawned on them. Robin's face became suddenly sad and almost wistful, and she looked to Finn with what could really only be described as _shame_. "Toudou. The man's name was Toudou, right?"

Finn nodded just as sadly, watching Robin avert her eyes and Amon and Nagira look to her with concern. "I think you know where I'm going with this, kind of. Toudou—your father, if you call him that—had been working on various genetic experiments for a while, and had recently become married to your mother—if you call her that—who was a daughter of a high-ranking SOLOMON official. She was also a witch."

"I know all this," Robin whispered. "Skip it."

Looking decidedly uncomfortable, Finn cleared his throat and took a swallow of his wine. "I think, originally, that Toudou's mission from SOLOMON was something completely different, and this you may or may not know, but he was also working for the committee at the time, on the same project. SOLOMON was willing to overlook it, the committee—at this point, their businesses had become so intertwined that SOLOMON was considering absorbing the committee for a while. And then…well, you know that Toudou kind of changed his mind about the whole affair, and witches in general."

Pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts and his breath, Finn stopped speaking. The room was dead silent.

"Both SOLOMON and the committee were rather irritated that such a thing had occurred, and that you…well, that you'd ever even been _created_," Finn said uneasily, gesturing vaguely at Robin. "This began the semi-schism between the committee and SOLOMON. SOLOMON wanted to use you, even if they didn't fully trust your entire existence, and the committee wanted you dead immediately. Guess who won?"

"These people have wanted me dead ever since I was first _born_?" Robin queried, frantically. "_Why_?"

Amon and Nagira were silent, processing information. Finn sighed.

"I dunno. I'd personally think that they'd be all for you, you being the genetically perfect witch and all, but…I don't know. Maybe because you were born perfect, and you didn't have to work for it and didn't have to carefully monitor your family line, marrying other witches…maybe just because your existence negated all their hard work." Finn looked over at the hunched girl across the table from him and put his feet back down on the ground, leaning across the table. "I…I don't have to keep talking about this, if you don't want to."

Shaking her head fervently, Robin looked bitter. "What does it matter? It isn't as if I haven't heard myself talked about as being a _creation_ before, and not a person. It isn't as if I am not used to people wanting me dead."

Finn looked troubled, nonetheless. "Well, you know that SOLOMON changed their mind about you. You started getting too powerful, too dangerous…too much like Toudou had wanted you to be, a power to right all the wrongs in the witch world. They couldn't control you anymore. And that's when the committee and the Church started talking again, because they realized that perhaps they'd had more in common in the first place than they'd originally known."

Amon spoke up, after an eternity of silence. "How so?"

Finn gave a sardonic half-smile. "You know. Oh, it's fine and dandy to be a witch, as long as you're not making ripples, as long as you're landed and familied, and as long as you're going to be helpful in some way—or subordinate—then you're okay. Everyone else gets to die."

Rubbing at his eyes fiercely, Nagira groaned. "Ah, Jesus. I feel like I'm in sociology class again…are we talking about witches and whatnot or fucking Karl Marx's theories about the world?"

"Then came the rumours out of Japan. Well, for those of us with close enough ties to people who associate with the committee, we knew they weren't rumours. Unless you two had been ground into itty-bitty teeny-tiny little pieces when that building collapsed, you two had escaped and were on the run." Finn nodded to Amon. "And we rather startled to hear that you'd defected. You'd been SOLOMON's inside man, the one who was supposed to go in and clean up the mess that all the others had left behind. Instead, you were elevated to public enemy number 2, right behind Robin's number one."

Terse, uncomfortable silence was Amon's only reply for the moment; his face was distinctly clouded over and unpleasant looking. His eyes shadowed as if he was searching through his memory for something; perhaps the memories of his half-hearted Hunt of Robin. "People change," he said finally. "I'm no exception."

Looking to Robin, who still was in a state of wordless disgruntlement, Nagira watched her for a reply. None was forthcoming. "So now SOLOMON's crapping its pants because they made a mistake in letting Robin live, all those years ago, and the committee's…trying to…?" the lawyer asked.

"I don't know what they're trying to do. Remember that they had originally wanted Robin dead, when she was an infant. SOLOMON was the thing that kept her alive, and then they lost control of her…it could be possible that the committee will use Robin to scare SOLOMON for as long as they see fit." Finn calmly lit a cigarette and walked over to a low table against the wall where a decanter of some manner of amber liquid was. He poured himself a glass and took a sip even as Amon regarded him suspiciously.

"You seem to know an awful lot about all of this." The words out of the ex-Hunter's mouth were a polite accusation, a gentle reminder that he didn't really trust _anyone_. Without a word, Robin rose from her spot at the table and moved quickly to the dining room's exit, keeping her eyes downcast as she went. Amon's eyes betrayed feeling torn between staying to press Finn for more information and following his ward to find out why she'd suddenly made an exodus from the room. Nagira looked to Amon with a look of expectation on his face, as if silently questioning him as to why he was still sitting at the table.

"I don't see a point in being cloak-and-dagger about all of this stuff," Finn replied nonchalantly. "You've obviously been frustrated at the lack of information you've received from Tryg. I'm just trying to fill in the blanks the best I can," said the American, offering the critical ex-Hunter an eyebrow shrug in answer to his steely gaze. "Sorry if that seems suspicious to you. I'm just telling you what I know, and making guesses at what I don't know."

Nagira was still staring his brother down. "Hey, buddy, Robin seemed pretty upset. Someone should probably go check on her," he said, blithely continuing on despite Amon's _look_. "I'll go after I finish my drink and my cigarette, if you want, so you can sit here and play cross-examiner with Finn."

"No. I'll go now." Amon stood and left the room, not sparing either of the other men in the room a glance as he left.

……………………………….

Upon opening the door to Robin's room and finding her lying on her bed, staring heatedly at the ceiling, Amon sighed and folded his arms over his chest. Why did everything always have to feel like a broken home, or a damn after-school special?

"You are getting sick of my emotions, aren't you?" Robin asked baldly, not looking at him. He straightened up and walked into the room, closing the door behind him. The light in the room was somewhat dim, ambient, thanks to the fact that it was provided all by candles and oil lamps. Stopping near the edge of Robin's bed, Amon looked down at her evenly. "I think I would be, by now."

"If I was sick of them, do you think I would be in here right now?" He watched her _almost_ roll her eyes.

"Sometimes I don't know." She frowned, harshly and sadly. "I seem to be nothing more than an object to people, you know?" Robin sat up on her elbows, looking down the length of the bed at Amon, her face vulnerable and accusatory at the same time. "I'm not even _natural_. Sometimes I feel more like someone's mistake than a human being. Everywhere I go I seem to cause strife and doubt. Factions have wanted me _dead_ since my birth. Other factions have wanted to _use _me since my birth."

Amon looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "Robin, that's not just you. That's everyone. There will always be people who want to use you, no matter who you are or where you came from, or _how_. There will always be people who hate you." His words weren't comforting at all and he kicked himself for it, but it was the truth. The world was a nasty place.

She looked skeptical, green eyes regarding him sourly. "There will always be people who want me dead?"

He was in the middle of a verbal land-mine field. "…Yes. But this is just the nature of your life. It's the nature of my life, as well, and Nagira's, and lots of other people's as well. Sometimes it's the nature of people's life because of their jobs, or the colour of their skin, or…" He looked at her meaningfully. "…or their genetic makeup."

A heavy sigh escaped Robin's lips, ruffling the choppy hair around her face and eyes. Her mouth puckered then turned downwards. "That is so…" Her head was shaking back and forth negatively as her mouth worked uselessly, searching for the right word. For a moment, Amon's mind envisioned her spitting out the word _bullshit_, because that was the word that he would have spit out if he had been in her shoes.

But Robin didn't swear, and he knew that. Sometimes, though, he thought that if she could learn the art of using a well-placed curse word every once in a blue moon that she'd feel that much happier for it.

"…_stupid_." The word didn't seem to have the _oomph_ she wanted it to have, and she flopped back onto the bed, curling onto her side. "Whatever happened to the good, friendly world that God created?"

Moving around to the side of the bed, Amon sat down unobtrusively on the edge of the mattress. Robin's slight body bounced some with his weight. "It's not just stupid, Robin, it's bullshit. But the world seems to just be like that." He watched her slender ribcage expand and contract with breath, unspoken words. "As for God's world, I think it went wrong the moment he put humans into it."

There was silence as Amon sat and watched Robin, and Robin digested his words. She rolled over towards him after her period of thought. "Why can't I believe that?" she asked, sounding frustrated mostly with herself. "Why won't I just accept that the world is bad, even after it has tried to prove this to me over and over again? Why…" Breaking eye contact with him, she paused, perhaps wondering if she was saying too much and gauging his reaction; worried that he was just going to look at her and think she was rambling like a confused teenager. "…why do I keep thinking that one day it will all change? That someday, I might be able to have a normal life and get along with people?"

Amon didn't know what to say. He really didn't. Part of him knew that this was why he loved the girl lying on the bed in front of him, her enduring hope and goodness, and part of him knew that the sooner she learned to let go of idealism, the less she would hurt. In the meantime, while his brain worked and memories flashed before his eyes, Robin looked at him helplessly, lost, waiting for some kind of words.

Being a warden was fucking _difficult_. It wasn't just difficult because Amon harboured very unwarden-like thoughts towards his ward, but because he had to do a lot of digging through his own beliefs and thoughts, through his own memories. Sometimes he felt like he was making things worse instead of making them better.

"Maybe," he began, unsurely, "one day it will be different. But perhaps for now it would be better to accept that the world we live in is _not_ different, and just carry that knowledge with us."

Robin looked at him sadly. "These things don't seem to bother you in the least."

Amon looked down at the covers of the bed, nodding slowly, his teeth grinding against each other lightly. "They do still bother me. The part of me that's bothered by these things is mostly numb, however."

More silence fell between the two and Robin broke it first by sniffling. Amon's eyes darted to hers immediately, searching for signs of tears but he found none. She seemed to sense him looking at her and she directed her gaze towards his eyes. She offered a faint little smile that was more like a sad frown than anything. "I like talking to you like this."

Amon's heart twitched. The familiar old urge in his stomach that told him to vacate the premises immediately started in with a fierceness but he stayed, as he usually did. "You think that I think you don't?"

Robin squirmed some. "No. We just don't talk like this very often." Thin fingers tucked at faded blonde hair as she scooted backwards some on the bed. "You…can sit more on the bed, if you'd like."

Try as he might, Amon couldn't keep a sliver of his brain from squawking like a fifteen-year-old boy. _She wants you to get onto the bed_.

"You're on the very edge. It doesn't look comfortable." Robin looked at him openly and completely honestly, and instead of scooting forward, Amon turned and pushed himself back onto the bed, lying down on his back. He folded his hands on top of his chest and looked up at the ceiling, aware of the fact that Robin's body was a mere foot away from him. Somehow he felt as if he was lying on a psychologist's couch, and that Robin was going to start coaching him to talk about his mother.

For her part, Robin said nothing about his sudden change of position. Instead, she went on, mostly in step, with their conversation. "Times like this I miss the convent. It…it isn't as if I was the best disciple ever, I suppose, but…"

"You have mentioned that before." Amon smiled _very_ faintly. "Hair always sticking out from under your veil?"

A noise like a chuckle emanated from Robin. "Yes. I suppose that I don't miss all the rules and the strictness very much, but I do miss the…carefree nature. That probably doesn't make much sense; not many people would think of a convent as carefree, but…I guess I do. There wasn't much for me to worry about, just my chores and my readings, services, choir, charity work…and everything seemed so much _better_, so much more _fulfilling_ because it seemed as if God was right there with me, smiling on everything I did. Even when I was getting in trouble, or I was late to mass, or I didn't sweep the hallway well enough..."

Amon hazarded a glance over at Robin, whose face was almost glowing in the remembrance of her past life.

"…God was there, and it was okay. I was still one of his children, and I was just trying to do his work. Everything seemed so much better when I didn't know anything, when life was simple." She chuckled again then, at herself. "Ignorance is bliss. Whoever said that was right, you know. I was perfectly happy with being an orphan, without knowing what I was, just living my simple life devoted to God. Now…everything is so complicated. I've sinned so much, and I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering if _today_ will be the day I'm caught and I die."

Face softening to the closest thing to utter sadness that he'd probably ever shown her, Amon spoke. "Is that where you remember the notion of God's perfect world from? The convent? Was everything perfect there?"

"Well, _no_. There were a few little things here and there." Robin bit her lower lip, looking up towards the ceiling in thought. "We learned an awful lot about God's perfect world there, though. It seemed so nice. I would love to live in a place like that—a place where everyone appreciates each other and takes care of each other, where people are happy and people don't want each other dead."

The warning sirens within Amon's gut were wailing and telling him to get the hell out before he said stupid things that said too much in the lines between the words; before he turned to the girl next to him and spilled a whole novel of things that he shouldn't have been thinking in the first place. His body was immobile and he could not mobilize it no matter how he tried. "That'd be nice. I'd like to live in a place like that one, as well, but I fear I have no place there, Robin."

Robin sat up slightly, looking at him critically, with concern. "What do you mean? Of course you would have a place there. Everyone would."

"If there was a world like that, there wouldn't be any need for people like me," Amon said. "You take away violence and secrecy, people who _do_ want each other dead and all general maliciousness and then you take away me. It's all I know, and I'm not the only one. There are people like me who rely on these things for their everyday life. Without conflict, I'm useless. I go insane. I stagnate and I do nothing. Sometimes," Amon wished to God he could shut his mouth and stop all the words that were coming out because it was entirely too much, "I think about what I would do if I didn't have to worry about keeping myself alive all the time. And you know, Robin, I can't think of a single damn thing. I'm a mercenary. I'm a spy. I'm a fighter. It is what I am good for. Outside of this, I have no idea what I am good at."

"Oh, but you're good at so many other things." Robin was looking at him with wide, plaintive eyes; the eyes that Amon knew well, the eyes that said _I am so in love with you but you don't see me at all_. "You have been through so much, and you have so much to offer and teach—you always have such good advice. You're intelligent and you're resourceful; I'm sure you could find something to do with spare time if you actually ever had any. You just think that you'd stagnate and fall into disuse. And you know, you are actually rather funny when you want to be—"

His eyes drifted closed, and he swallowed hard. "Robin. Stop."

He could feel her staring into his side, at the side profile of his face. "Why?"

Teeth grinding as usual, Amon's brain looked for words. "I can't sit here and listen to you talk about me."

"But…why?" Robin sounded confused, semi-hurt, and bewildered.

"I just _can't_." In his mind, the words went on. _It's not right, Robin, don't you see that? Don't you see how fucked up it is for me to push you so far away and then come back and luxuriate in the way your eyes look at me, the way your words cradle me, the way you LOVE me and I just sit here the same as ever? The same asshole as ever; and every once in a great while I show a fraction of whatever that's left of me that's still a man and you go to pieces, and you come rushing, and for fuck's sake there's something sick in me that loves it. You forget whatever is wrong with you, and immediately your whole life is on pause because you're trying to find whatever pieces of me that you can and put them into all the holes to try to figure me out. Here we go, in the same demented dance we always do because you're too young to know any better and I'm too damaged to change it, and here we are acting in our little roles. I'm the big responsible man and I'm going to just keep having some sort of sick pleasure in the fact that I can lift up my thumb whenever I want and let you come a little closer, and then when I've had enough I can put my thumb back down and you stay put. For God's sake, little girl, don't you see how screwed up this is? Don't you see how bad I am for you? How can you not? _

While Amon's mind had went on feverishly within its walls, Robin's eyes stared into his side sadly, her head sinking back down to her pillow slowly, hands folding under her cheek to support her head. "It's this situation," she murmured softly, more to the pillow than to him. "And it's me, isn't it? You don't want to listen to my silly attitude about the world, about our situation, and about you…and I can understand, I suppose if I understood things the way you understood them I wouldn't want to listen to a silly girl and her wishful, overly optimistic babble—"

The mental tirade was interrupted by the sounds of her hurried, timid explanation, and Amon felt like growling; once again, the thing that he never wanted to happen always ended up happening—Robin blamed herself, Robin saw everything as all her _fault_. He wanted to scream, wanted to growl, but instead he rolled over and grabbed the slight frame of the girl next to him and held for all he was worth, sensing her surprise. After a few seconds her body curled into his thankfully and appreciatively, in a way that felt frighteningly right.

"It isn't you. It isn't the situation." Whereas he'd been so verbose a moment ago, Amon found words hard to come by then. "I plan for failure before it even happens."

Robin's face was pressed into his neck, his chest. "You're so gloomy all the time. I feel like I am…irritating you, sometimes, with my thoughts—"

Amon closed his eyes fiercely, breathing in the scent of Robin's hair and the feel of her in his arms, and his hands were gripping the fabric of her sweater like a dangling rope. The day had been long, the day had been hard, and multiple things had been lost; Sigrún's baby, Robin's innocence and her faith in her own goodness, their hope for making good with the committee. Even still, God help him, Amon almost glowed with pleasure at the presence of Robin in his arms.

"You can never irritate me with hope," he said, his face in her hair, his face at her temple, and his face was moving and the warning sirens within him had reached a new fever pitch, and—

--they were looking at each other. Robin looked confused, sympathetic, expectant. Amon's mouth was dry, his heart beating erratically and hands gripping blindly. Round, shining green eyes looked up at him, completely guileless, tiny hands hooked lightly on the fabric of his shirt upon his back.

_Oh, Jesus, I'm going to kiss her. Oh good Christ._

His face had moved perhaps a fraction of an inch towards hers when a completely alien sound came from the room next door, his room. The sound caused him to sit bolt upright, his arms still linked around Robin's svelte body, dragging it upward with him. She was startled, staring towards the door conjoining their room, and then she looked up at him with utter confusion and suspicion on her face.

The sound was the sound of his cell phone ringing. The only person who ever called that cell phone—who knew the real number—was Nagira, and why would he be calling it when he was in the same house as them?

Bolting up, all business, Amon stalked towards the connecting door, Robin suddenly hot on his heels. He yanked open the door and went through it, Robin right behind him. There, on the bedside table, was the phone; plugged into the wall still, why, Amon wasn't entirely sure. He snatched it up and scrutinized it momentarily, and frowned when he noticed there was no number on the caller-ID screen.

Robin hovered at his elbow, her hand touching it delicately. "Who is it?" she whispered, and Amon frowned severely, shaking his head.

"Someone who isn't supposed to be calling," he said simply. Robin was holding onto his arm then with two hands, peering between the phone and his face and for once he didn't care about her proximity.

Flipping the phone open Amon brought it to his ear, swallowing. Robin watched him intently in the corner of his eye, and he cleared his throat and looked at the wall impassively.

"Yes?"

A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update. This chapter was actually posted up at Geocities about a week ago, before I went home to Arizona for Thanksgiving, and I'm just now getting around to putting it up here...lo siento. I suck.

OHNOES ANGST WHAT THE FUCK. Will Amon and Robin ever make out? Will weird shit ever stop happening? Will I get a life and stop drinking wine? XD


	20. viðrar vel til loftárása

"_I'm a slave and I am a master_

…_I won't let this build up inside of me"_

_--Slipknot, "Vermilion"_

"_in my head I found you there and  
running around and following me  
but you don't, oh, dare now  
but I find that I have now  
more then I ever wanted to_

…_hey, do you know  
what this is doing to me?  
oh, here...  
here...  
here. in my head"_

_--Tori Amos, "Here. In My Head"_

"_(all of my blind ambition left me deaf with perfect vision)_

_the time has come  
for things to come undone  
that we should not have begun"_

_--The Dresden Dolls, "The Time Has Come"_

"_The end, torture and death  
when do they stop, when is it over?  
one day they will all stand up,  
rebel against us - exterminate us"_

_--Caliban, "100 Suns"_

"I _certainly_ hope I'm not being a bother," Reznik began, adjusting his collar in the mirror, phone cradled against his shoulder, "but I simply had to speak with you, Amon."

"I see." The cell-phone echo of the other man's fierce, short reply was almost lost in Reznik's hearing; Paz, freshly come from the Czech man's bed, was taking certain relish in berating his house staff about something or another. Turning towards her swiftly, he made a sharp motion in the art with his arm and she closed her mouth, sullenly, the housemaid she'd been laying into skittling off with a look of abject terror on her face. Paz slunk off to the balcony, gold cigarette case in hand.

"How are things, Amon?" Reznik asked, watching Paz until she was out of sight and then turning back to the mirror. He could almost picture the intense, permanently stoic face of the ex-Hunter as he stood with a phone in his hand, wondering how in the hell Reznik happened to come by his number.

Not as if it had been difficult.

Undoubtedly, the pint-sized science fair project gone wrong known as Robin Sena was simpering about in Amon Novotne's shadow, as seemed to be her habit. Reznik was starting to think that perhaps it would be a good idea to kill Amon and the human, Nagira, and then watch Robin simply kill _herself_.

"Splendid." The word 'splendid' had never sounded more like _fuck off_ to Reznik's ears. "Yourself?"

Reznik bit down the urge to laugh. Was the younger Czech man capable of sentences larger than one word? "I'm wonderful. How is everyone else? Robin? Your human brother? Trygve, Finn, Sigrún? _Sigrún's baby_?" A grin lit up Reznik's face; he wondered how Amon would respond to _that_.

There was a moment of silence. "Sigrún had lost her child. My human brother—also called _Nagira_—is doing fine." More silence, electronic silence. "We are otherwise fine."

"Oh, she's miscarried?" Reznik said, theatrically concerned. "My condolences to the household." There was more electronic silence, Amon obviously not deeming Reznik's pity worth commenting on.

"This has been an enriching exchange of pleasantries, but I—"

Reznik cut in, stopping Amon's words cold. "Oh, but it isn't just a social call! I've called about business matters—well, social business matters anyway."

"Go on." The sounds of meek murmuring in the background could be heard through the earpiece, but then they stopped just as soon as they had started. Sena, no doubt.

"I've sent an invitation to the house for you," Reznik began, moving away from the mirror, "to a function that is to occur in two days in Amsterdam." Another grin lit Reznik's face at the recollection that Robin and Amon had just recently been _chased_ out of Amsterdam, SOLOMON hot on their heels. "I can assure you that this time you won't be hounded by SOLOMON while there."

"Wonderful." Again, Amon's positive choice of words sounded so _negative_.

"The invitation should be there some time tomorrow afternoon. It's a formal affair—I suggest you have yourself fitted for a suit, and make sure that little Robin is fitted for a dress. Trygve and Sigrún—poor woman—will be familiar with the function, and their attendance is requested as well."

Reznik could hear the gears and cogs turning in the ex-Hunter's head. "If you are sending an invitation, why did you call?"

_You mean HOW did I call?_ Reznik's mind replied. "I simply wanted to hear your cheerful voice, my boy. The invitation will be there tomorrow—look for it." Reznik looked to the patio door, which was opening to reveal Paz reentering the room. "Until then, I suppose."

"Yes," Amon replied, dryly, "until then."

Pulling the phone away from his ear, Reznik flipped it closed and slipped it back into his pocket, looking at Paz impassively. She arched an eyebrow at him with her hands on her hips.

"How much are you willing to wager that he's frantically trying to discover how you got that number and how we already knew about that stupid Icelandic whore and her child?" she asked, smugly.

"Why would I bet against something that I know is happening?" he asked of her, just as smugly. "And in the future, I'll thank you not to torture my staff."

Rolling her eyes, Paz walked further into the room. "Live a little," she chided.

………………………

"What? What is it?" Robin asked quickly, curiously, after watching Amon pull the phone away from his ear slowly, closing it in his hand equally as slowly. For a split second Robin had watched the muscles in his arm, the tics of his hand and thought that he was either going to smash the phone or throw it against the wall. "Amon, who _was_ that?"

He looked over at her slowly, face darkened. Gone was the introspective, even _friendly_ Amon who had just held her in his arms, who had just comforted her. "That," he began evenly, "was our dear friend Reznik; more than likely calling just to inform us that he knows how to find us. He also called to offer his condolences on Sigrún's baby—which he sounds as if he already knew about—and asked how we were all doing, including Finn—whom, somehow, Reznik knew was living here."

Robin blanched, realizing her hand was still on Amon's arm. "How?" she asked, her voice a whisper. Amon, frowning, moved away from her, his arm disconnecting from her hand with a slight jerk.

Amon paused a short distance away from Robin, who looked after him urgently. He appeared to be thinking, hands on his hips, tongue stuck in the inside of his cheek. "The doctor." His voice was flat.

Robin's eyes widened in understanding, her head tilting some. "This morning…we were all downstairs, except Trygve and Sigrún and…_Finn_. We stayed in the parlor while the doctor was upstairs…and then we watched him leave."

Amon was frozen in place, looking down at the floor. "He could have come into my room and obtained the phone's true number from the phone itself." Amon let his head roll back, looking up at the ceiling then. "Reznik also knew about our encounter with SOLOMON in Amsterdam."

"_How_?" Robin asked, in disbelief. How long had they been keeping tabs on them? What else did they know?

"I would have to assume that they've been watching us for some time," Amon replied grimly.

At a loss for words and ideas, Robin sighed, wide-eyed. "What should we do?"

"There isn't much we can do, except start trying to figure out how to _prevent_ them from watching us," her warden answered after a moment of deliberation. "I need to speak with Nagira, and Trygve. _Now_."

…………………………….

It had been awkward, to say the least, to sit in the third-floor room of Sigrún and Trygve as she laid in bed looking wasted and drained, and Trygve looked rather worse for the wear himself. Robin squirmed, feeling uncomfortable, as the men discussed possibilities and theories. Trygve, despite being obviously out-of-sorts and tired, actively participated in the conversation. In the corner of the large, darkened room, the two housemaids moved about in silence, Helle holding a chattering Eirikur and crooning something to him in an unfamiliar language.

Robin would have preferred to leave their hosts to their grieving for the evening and discuss the breach of the house's security in the morning, when perhaps they would have been out and about, but Amon, Nagira, and Finn had deemed it important enough to bring to Trygve and Sigrún's attention right away.

"Well," Trygve sighed. "It looks as if we're going to Amsterdam. The function he's talking about is an annual thing, a dinner party held after a particular auction. Reznik, to the best of my knowledge, attends the auction every year."

"Huh. Not very much time to get fitted for a suit," Nagira said, rubbing his chin in thought. "I take it this is another one of those no-humans-allowed affairs?"

"Not necessarily," Trygve replied. "Witches and humans alike attend the auction and dinner. However, I think they'd probably prefer that you didn't attend."

"Well, that's too damn bad," Nagira said cheerfully. "Because I'm going." Amon looked to his brother with a raised eyebrow and what could have been perhaps a cautionary look on his face. Nagira flippantly ignored it.

Finn was pensive, standing next to Robin, leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. He moved a hand to scratch at some of his haphazard brown hair, squinting. It made it appear as if his sun-freckles had multiplied. "It's kind of disturbing they knew I was here—you really think it was the doctor?"

"Who else could it have been?" Robin piped up, and an awkward silence befell the room. Amon looked to Finn with a serious—and possibly suspicious—glance.

"Unless you want us to all start pointing fingers at each other," Amon said, "we're going with the doctor. That is, unless other evidence surfaces." Finn shrugged, apparently unaffected by Amon's poking suspicion.

"But haven't you guys used that doctor for _years_?" Finn asked, curiously. "Didn't he deliver Eirikur? Maybe we're being tapped or something."

It was Sigrún's turn to speak, after having been silent for the entire conversation. "I would never allow a man to deliver my child. That isn't the way."

Trygve looked momentarily pained, perhaps at the mention of child-birthing. "It's Icelandic custom for a woman to assist in the birthing of a child, so no, he did not deliver Eirikur. But yes, we have been using Doctor Symons for years…rather, I have. Sig has been using him for as long as she's lived here with me, for whatever she couldn't fix herself." He shook his head, slowly, smoothing his moustache. "Perhaps that's how the committee always seemed to know what I was doing, where I was. I don't know. It is plausible."

Nagira stood from his crouching position, and looked at Trygve, whom was sitting upon the bed. "I'd say it's more than plausible, buddy. Unless someone in this room is a _really_ good liar, that doctor ran off and spilled his guts to our committee buddies." His eyes slid over to Amon. "What's say, buddy—is it time for _us_ to make a house call to the doctor?"

Amon shook his head, eyes staring into space. He was thinking again. "Not yet. That would just make things worse, right now. I don't think it would reflect favourably upon us to break Reznik's informant's kneecaps."

"Break his kneecaps?" Robin interjected, frowning. "You two aren't _mafiosos_, you know. There certainly isn't a need for you to act like them."

Finn cracked his knuckles, drawing attention. "You three are in hot enough water as it is. I'm not entirely thrilled about those bastards knowing that I'm here, so if _anyone's_ going to be breaking kneecaps, it's going to be _me_."

Robin looked around her incredulously, eyeing all the men around her. "_No one_ is going to break _anyone's_ kneecaps. That would just be asking for more trouble." She paused for a moment, wondering where her sudden ability to speak up had come from. "Let's just…wait and see. And be careful."

……………………………..

Short notice had left the household in more or less a state of hurried disarray. Suddenly the whole household was either trying to locate something suitable within their wardrobes to wear to a high-society function or was trucking themselves into downtown Copenhagen to be fitted and have something tailored within _hours_. Sigrún, pale-faced and stiff-jointed, was once again Robin's shopping accomplice, although Beatrix had been taken along this time in case Sigrún needed assistance with something or didn't feel well enough to assist Robin.

It was going to be too much of a pain to try to find six train or plane tickets on such short notice—not to mention expensive and somewhat ridiculous, for only being in Amsterdam one night—so it was decided that driving would be wiser. Copenhagen was a little under 600 miles away from Amsterdam—a trip that could be made relatively quickly, depending upon how fast one was driving.

"We can't all fit into one vehicle, not comfortably," Robin said as the seamstress re-measured her, despite the fact that Robin's measurements had already been taken prior. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Robin couldn't help but think that perhaps the seamstress (whom had been somewhat _disappointed_ by Robin's initial measurements) was re-measuring her in the hopes that she'd filled out somewhere. It hadn't seemed to have happened, however. "We're going to need to take two cars, aren't we?"

Sigrún nodded, watching Robin being fitted. Hanging from a rack near her were several dresses that Sigrún had suggested for Robin, all of which needed to be altered drastically to fit Robin's tiny frame. "Yes. The Checker would be rather impractical, however, so I suppose we'll open the garage up and see what else we have." She caught Robin's befuddled look and sighed. "Trygve is constantly changing the contents of the garage—buying, selling, buying, selling. I never know what we have except the Checker."

"Ah." Robin watched the seamstress disappointedly eyeing her tape, holding it out in front of her, fingers on the number that represented Robin's hip measurement. Sighing, the seamstress walked over to Sigrún and Beatrix and chattered something off in Danish, to which the two women chattered back.

Meanwhile Robin stood and looked down at her body, feeling awkward and stick-like.

"Robin, which one of these dresses are you going to decide on?" Sigrún asked briskly, indicating the dresses hanging. "Petrine needs to get to work right away if she is to have a dress ready for you by this afternoon."

………………………………….

Robin found herself feeling mildly _surly_ as the day progressed, morning moving into noon moving into afternoon. The darkening of her mood was associated not only with the state of tension and hurriedness in the house, but with the fact that her head was beginning to feel very much as if it would explode. She'd gone to bed with a headache, awoken with a headache, and the headache had been worsening as the day wore on.

She was definitely not looking forward to a possible eight hour drive that evening, lasting well into the night—she could only pray that Amon would drive, and that he would end up driving something fast. He seemed unable to resist violating speed restriction laws if he was in a car that seemed more than capable of it.

The reason for Robin's headache was the steady and unfading hissing murmur in the back of her mind. She hadn't told anyone about it; she figured it would only rouse worry and disgruntlement. It was as if the voices of the witches she heard when she called upon them had somehow broken free of their mental moorings and were free-floating in her mind, talking all at once. She'd asked them, told them, demanded of them, and pleaded with them to be quiet hundreds of times during the day, but to no avail. It seemed as if they were content to have a party in her mind for the moment.

It was disturbing to her. Robin chalked it up to stress and sleepiness; she hadn't slept very well the night before, her mind occupied with fevered thoughts of being watched and being hunted. In her waking moments, lying in bed staring up at the molded ceiling, she'd heard Amon moving about in his room. Apparently he had been having difficulty sleeping as well.

Finn found her rubbing her temples on the massive front step of the house, eyes closed, nose slightly reddened from the cold. He looked down at her curiously, unnoticed by Robin.

"Your head botherin' you or something?" he asked her, nearly startling the daylights out of her—the voices spiked to a hiss and then faded back down a rolling murmur once she opened her eyes and saw Finn standing before her.

"A little," she admitted. "Where did you come from?"

He jerked a thumb in the vague direction of the side of the house. "I was off in the garage scoping the car selection. Looks like we can pick from the Checker, some monstrous old American beast of a truck, an old Saab, an old Audi, and a BMW." He noticed the distinctly blank look Robin was favouring him with and smiled. "I take it you're not one for cars."

Robin shook her head. "Not really. That's Amon's interest. You should tell him about the cars."

"Sure thing." Finn's tanned, freckled, typically somehow _open_ American face regarded her with concern. "Want me to get you an aspirin or something?"

Robin shook her head again, knowing that an aspirin wasn't going to help her headache any. "No thank you. I'll be fine. The fresh air is helping me already."

Finn regarded her skeptically and climbed the stone steps. "Okay. Holler if you need anything." He disappeared into the house behind Robin, who let her eyes drift closed once more and resumed her steady massaging of her temples.

_Be quiet_, she willed the voices in her mind. _Please_.

………………………………

"It takes about eight hours, roughly, to get to Amsterdam by car," Trygve informed Amon, handing him a printed map with some printed verbal directions stapled to it. Amon inspected the map and the driving directions and then looked back to Trygve, seriously.

"Six hours, tops," he corrected. "Eight hours? At what _speed_?"

Trygve managed a small laugh, shaking his head at Amon, who had been in the process of packing a small bag in his room. "You young, single men, always driving like crazy men—I know because I used to be one of you. When you've got a wife and a child in the vehicle you will find yourself very loath to drive recklessly." He caught the stoically offended gaze from Amon. "Come now. You do not expect me to believe that you are going to make it to Amsterdam in under six hours by following all of the posted speed limits and other legal restrictions?"

Amon still looked mildly offended. "And why not?" he sounded defensive.

"I'd be careful if I were you, lending this guy one of your cars," Nagira piped up, appearing in the doorway in a white tank-top undershirt and a pair of dark green dress slacks. His hair appeared wet and rumpled, as if he'd just emerged from the shower and heard the conversation taking place. "He hasn't driven _anything_ in near a month and half—except for in Iceland, and it wasn't as if he could haul ass—due to the nature of the situations he and Robin have been in."

"Why are my abilities to operate a motor vehicle safely—and _sanely_—suddenly on trial, here?" Amon queried, sounding harried. Nagira shrugged.

"You've got a reputation for driving like a racecar driver," his brother answered, simply. Amon's face darkened and Trygve stifled a minute, polite grin before excusing himself from the room.

"And this is from the man who drives a god damned _Ferrari_," Amon grumbled at Nagira, before tossing the papers in his hand down onto his bed, turning back to his bag.

………………………….

"Lay it flat," Beatrix instructed Robin as the blonde girl was loading some of her things into the trunk of the BMW—the vehicle Amon had picked as his car for the trip. Robin took the bag that contained her freshly altered dress and carefully laid it flat in the trunk. She'd just finished trying it on to make sure it fit and found that it did, with the small exception that it was still a little long. They didn't have time to take it back and have it re-altered, however, so Robin said nothing and nodded her approval about it. "You don't want it to wrinkle, no? There will not be ways to make it not-wrinkled."

The redheaded maid had Nagira's bag in her hands, and she plopped it down in the trunk by Robin's small bag, afterwards acting as if she was brushing some dirt from her hands. "Well! Mr. Nagira will be pleased that I have placed his bag into the car, yes?"

Robin, as she usually did when she was around the overly-exuberant, awkward-English-speaking, witch maid, felt exceedingly goofy and at a loss for words. "Um, yes. He'll be happy."

"Oh, very good!" Beatrix was preternaturally pleased about her bellhop prowess; perhaps the unusual amount of joy she gleaned from helping other people was why she was a maid. "Oh, Miss Robin. I have something I wish to say!"

Before Robin could get a word out of her mouth, Beatrix grabbed Robin's hands in her own and squeezed them so tight that Robin swore the circulation was being cut off. The ocean of voices in her head sounded as if it was _giggling_. "Er—"

"I am very worried about our situation!" the Danish girl gushed out, looking into Robin's eyes frantically. "This is all very dangerous. Someone has told the outsiders about us. I worry about you on this trip."

Blinking, Robin managed a reassuring smile at Beatrix. "Oh. Don't worry, Beatrix…we're all very aware of what is happening and we'll all be on watch." The other girl still clung to Robin's hands, face imploring. Robin searched for something else to say. "We'll find out what is happening."

"I don't want anything bad to happen!" the maid exclaimed. "You must be very careful, Miss Robin. Your power grows and they want to take this, for themselves…something feels wrong."

"But…how do you know? Your Craft is only…psychokinesis, right?" Robin asked, unsurely. She recalled the instance in her room, where Beatrix had willed the article of clothing into her hand from across the room. At the look of confusion she gained from the other girl, Robin inferred that perhaps Beatrix didn't understand the word psychokinesis and opted for a different explanation. "You move things with your mind?"

"Yes," Beatrix answered, and then her face contorted, as if in deep thought. "…yet, still, I feel as if something is wrong, in my stomach. You know? Do you understand, the feeling in the stomach—the bad feeling?"

Nodding, Robin looked concerned. "A bad feeling…in your gut?"

Beatrix nodded emphatically in return. "Yes, yes! Something is wrong. Doctor Symons…he is a good man. I knew him since I was only a little girl—I can't believe that he would talk to _those people_ about what happens here." Her face soured, and her head shook slowly back and forth, as if condemning something or someone. "Very…suspicious."

Processing this information and storing it away for later retrieval, Robin nodded firmly and resolutely. "Perhaps it was not him. We'll find out, eventually. But…" Robin carefully extracted her hands from those of Beatrix, and smiled warmly. "…thank you for your concern. I'll mention your defense of the Doctor's character to Amon and Nagira."

……………………………..

From the open double garage doors, Amon and Nagira could see Finn coming up the walk towards them slowly, a cell phone to his ear as he walked. His mouth moved in the distance, words indiscernible. Amon exhaled a cloud of smoke next to his brother, jerking his head slightly towards the tall, lanky American. "Who is he talking to?" Amon asked, and then realized that it was a stupid question to ask—one little tweak of his Craft and he would be able to _hear_ every word the man was speaking into his phone.

Something inside of Amon balked at the idea, though; perhaps the idea of eavesdropping when he had no good cause to. It would do them no good to fall to pieces now, now that they knew someone was keeping tabs on them. He had no evidence to suggest that Finn meant them any ill will, and before he could even attempt to justify using his Craft to listen in on the man's phone conversation, he snapped his phone closed and lifted his head, heading towards the garage at an increased pace.

"Said he was calling his ex," Nagira replied, exhaling his own cloud of smoke. "Wanted to make sure she was okay, that she hadn't noticed any suspicious characters following _her_ around." Nagira shrugged with his eyebrows. "This whole situation has really got his panties in a twist—he doesn't like the idea that someone's keeping tabs on him at _all_."

"As if I do?" Amon asked, tossing his cigarette to the ground and smashing it out with his boot. "I suppose that maybe I'm just _used_ to it by now. His ex? I thought he was related to Trygve by marriage?"

"He _was._ Apparently he and Trygve's sister were married for a couple of years and just got divorced a couple of months ago." Nagira shrugged with his eyebrows again. "Whatever. You and Robin should have your own reality show, you guys are so high in demand all the time," Nagira suggested, a hint of smirk in his voice. Amon remained impassive, watching the man approaching them.

"Fuck you," he muttered casually, just as Finn reached them.

"Sounds like everything's good States-side," Finn said with relief, producing his own cigarette. "Hell. Our marriage might not have worked, but she's still the woman I married, you know? It's good to know she's safe." Finn's face intensified, his eyes blackening. "For now."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Nagira reassured, producing a lighter for the disgruntled man. "I doubt they'd go that far out to piss someone off. Too much effort, not enough impact, you know?"

"I agree," Amon added, staring off into the distance. "Unless," he said, and Finn's head snapped towards him immediately, eyes wide, "you have any children?"

"None." Finn was still on alert by Amon's statement.

"Too much effort," Amon said, nodding as if to reaffirm his earlier statement. "If you had any kids, _then_ I would worry." Both Finn and Nagira spared a look at Amon that wordlessly said _You're not helping_.

The three men stood in silence for a spell. All three turned to look at the sound of a door opening and shutting in the garage, and Nagira offered a little wave at Sigrún, who gave a tired smile back as she loaded what appeared to be a baby bag into the backseat of the Audi. She headed back into the house and the three men went back to standing there, absorbed in their own thoughts.

"You _are_ going to shave that mess of a face before this dinner thing, aren't you?" Nagira spoke, breaking the silence. Amon merely looked put-out in response and Finn began to laugh.

…………………………….

Green eyes snapped open, startled; hands flopped about in empty air, reaching out for something that might or might not have been there. It took approximately two seconds for Robin to realize where she was and what was happening, and then she'd assessed that she was in the passenger seat of the M5, the dark of the land around her pressing in, the synthetic light of the highway boring down on the roof of the car, shining in through the windshield.

Amon was looking at her in the split-second between downshifts, steering the car around a curved ramp, accelerating out of the turn down towards a continuation of the highway. "What?" he asked, dividing his attention between Robin's confused state and speed shifting the transmission as he roared down the ramp towards the highway, wheels chirping.

"I was asleep," she managed finally, feeling herself being pressed back into her seat by the force of the car accelerating so quickly. The voices in her head were jostled. "…Where are we?"

"According to this map…" Nagira's voice came from the back seat, and Robin looked back to see Nagira reading the printed directions by the glow of a cigarette ember, "we're about three-fourths of the way to Amsterdam. A261, exit 33." He squinted at the directions. "Yeah. About three-fourths of the way."

"You've been asleep for quite some time," Amon added. "A few hours."

"I, for one, am amazed that you could sleep with this psychopath driving." Nagira took another drag of his cigarette and put it out in what Robin presumed was an ashtray on the center console, near the floorboards of the vehicle. "I think he's been averaging 160 kilometres since we left Copenhagen."

Robin eyed the speedometer to her right and frowned, then sank back into her seat, sighing. The voices in her head were still there, albeit not as loud as they'd been earlier that day. "What time is it?"

"About 9 o' clock," Amon replied. "Are you alright?"

Robin nodded, rubbing at her eyes. She tried in vain to examine the landscape passing the vehicle, but found it was too dark and that they were moving too quickly. She shifted stiffly in her seat, the leather creaking under her body. "I dreamt."

Amon hazarded a concerned glance at her quickly, keeping his eyes on the road. He passed a slow-moving Citroen—slow-moving in comparison to the M5—and snuck another quick peek at her. "And?"

Shaking her head wearily, Robin squinted slightly against the noise in her head. "Nothing. I dreamt, that's all."

Silence reigned in the car, punctuated by the sounds of leather under moving bodies, and Nagira trying futilely to clear his throat of something.

"Well, since we're making good time," Nagira said suddenly, "pull over at the next opportunity, Amon. Robin, I have _got_ to switch places with you. This backseat was not engineered for tall people. I think I lost all feeling in my legs about an hour and half ago."

…………………………………

They beat Trygve's Audi to Amsterdam by who-knew-how-much. Robin was reticent in the backseat, her eyes roving over the late-night Amsterdam skyline as they rolled into the "downtown" areas, her mind recalling the short period of time that she and Amon had lived here, not so long ago.

In essence, this whole crazy trip—all the people they'd met, the deaths, the committee, Nagira's arrival—all of it had started here, the night they decided to go to the symphony. The old Dutch man with the boat, their hurried exodus to England…what had that boat been called? Decision…drama…destiny…? Robin's brain worked, her eyes squinting out the window. _Despair. The boat was called Despair—Wanhoop, in Dutch._

Robin was lost in her memories, caught up; drunken Amon, venturing into the city, brief enjoyment of the symphony, the frantic flight up the stairs to the roof—the door, nearly cutting Amon in half—and the fight on the rooftop, two Hunters left more or less headless from gunshots and one burned away to nothing by Robin's flame. Dear Lord, it hadn't even been that long ago they'd been here, perhaps only two weeks. Three? How long had it been; her brain scrambled to remember but found that it could not do so accurately. So much had happened in the short period of time since they'd run from Amsterdam.

Robin felt _old_. Old and stiff, oddly repulsed by the city—odd, one would think returning to the city under a guise of relative safety would somehow prove cathartic. It wasn't. It was like London was for her and Amon, every time they came back to it they hated it more and more.

Robin looked up to the windshield, the rear view mirror, to find Amon looking back at her, his grey eyes somehow seeming to express her own sentiments, deep within their unreadable depths. A silent, stealthy sigh forced out of her lungs.

"I did not think we'd be returning here any time soon." Amon's statement from the front seat was like an apology. Robin shifted in the backseat, slouching down, her hands on her stomach.

"Yes," she replied, half-heartedly. "Amsterdam."

"Amsterdam," Amon echoed, just as blankly. He seemed to settle into his seat more, as well, even if it was not the full-blown slouch Robin had adopted. "Amsterdam."

Nagira said nothing. He merely lit a cigarette and rolled down his window some, letting in some of the heavy, cold air from outside. He hadn't been there. He couldn't commiserate.

In the backseat, Robin closed her eyes and leaned her head back, folding her arms over her stomach. They'd come full circle, in a way, and they'd come back in some respects better than before and in some respects worse off than before. Her head felt heavy and crowded, and even Nagira's sudden whistling seemed surreal and ominous.

Their hotel was a brightly-lit, massive affair, with the same eager and polite staff that Robin found she encountered at any hotel no matter what land she was in. As per usual, Amon insisted on them carrying their own things, which wasn't so big of a deal; they were all lightly packed. Amon having to use Dutch at the counter while Robin and Nagira stood back and shot each other confused glances, keys to three separate rooms—Amon and Robin's conjoining, like always, Nagira's room conjoining to Robin's as well, except from the other side. Trygve, Sigrún, Finn, and Eirikur had not arrived yet, according to the front desk. The trio took the elevator up to their rooms, all entering through Nagira's door, since he was the first in order in the hallway, and the first with his keycard ready. They dispersed to their individual rooms after that, Nagira coming through Robin's shortly thereafter to rouse Robin and Amon into ordering food.

Amon declined, not totally atypical for him, and went off to shower. Robin and Nagira ordered food from room service and dug in with aplomb once it arrived. Still no word from their other companions.

"That figures, though," Nagira said, around a mouthful of food. "Amon was seriously going double the speed limit there for a while, or something crazy like that. They're probably still an hour or so away by now."

On cue, Amon entered Nagira's room, freshly showered and clean-shaven. Robin had found it odd in the back of her mind that it had taken Amon so long to shower, but she supposed it was due to his shaving. She found herself staring at him for a moment, caught up—she'd almost forgotten what his jawline looked like without facial hair on it. She averted her eyes quickly when he looked to her, perhaps sensing her eyes upon him as she always did, and kept his eyes on her momentarily while Nagira made a noise of shock.

"Your face!" he cried, dramatically. "It's back!"

"It had gone somewhere?" Amon asked dryly. "Any word from Trygve and the others yet?"

Nagira snorted. "Uh, _no_. I think they're still eating your dust somewhere outside of Munster, Germany." Nagira met Amon's look of _oh, please_ with defiance and took a healthy swig of his gin and tonic. "You gonna eat something or what, buddy? It's not normal for a person to be able to see their ribs."

"No." Amon carefully avoided meeting either one of Nagira or Robin's questioning—and reprimanding—gazes. "I'm not hungry. Actually, I am going to bed."

"Bed?" Robin asked, her eyebrow quirking uncontrollably. "Already?" It was unlike Amon to go to bed so early, even if it really wasn't all _that_ early. He looked at her pointedly and nodded. Amon was acting odd, acting as if something was on his mind. It was entirely possible, knowing him.

"Yes, already. You would be wise to do the same, I think." He turned and headed for the door to Robin's room, which would in turn lead to the door to his own room. "Goodnight." The door to Robin's room opened and closed definitively, as if it too had wanted to say goodnight in such a final manner. Nagira stared after his brother for a second and then rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair.

"Why is my brother so _weird_?" he asked of the heavens; more appropriately, the ceiling. Robin, not really wanting to say anything, and still partially reeling from the sight and remembrance of Amon's jawline, merely offered a noncommittal little shrug.

……………………………….

Two forty one am; a deathly silent time when rooms felt empty and delicate because their occupants were sleeping, all human noise ceased for a few hours until the sun came up. Sometimes it made one feel as if they were the last human being on the face of the planet. Sitting on the edge of his bed, the surroundings of his room not nearly as dark as they should have been, Amon exhaled. Two forty two am.

He rubbed at the thin, nearly invisible sheen of sweat that was breaking out on his forehead. His Craft was reaching, ever-so-slightly. The room was brighter than it would have been; all shapes and lines clearly discernable to Amon. He could smell the freshly laundered sheets as if he had his nose pressed down into them, could feel the carpet pressing into his bare feet like so many soft little pegs. He could hear through the walls, despite the sounds of the heater working like little pieces clicking together, and could hear Robin moving around in her room like a restless ghost.

He would not let himself move. This was getting damned _ridiculous_. He could not go running to her every time she couldn't sleep, every time she grew upset at something. What was he doing? He wasn't proving to be a warden, or a teacher, or anything of importance—all he was doing, Amon felt, was coddling Robin and teaching her that he would always be there to pick up the pieces, teaching her how to remain a confused little girl forever instead of the Eve of Witches.

Perhaps that wasn't all of it, though. Perhaps a bit of it was that he was alarmed at how close he and Robin were getting, how eased and connected their interactions were becoming.

Her feet were on the floor, walking aimlessly. Amon looked to the door that conjoined their rooms, and rubbed at his hyper-sensitive eyes. That was no approach to take, leaving Robin all alone to deal with all of her problems. She was just a girl—just a _kid_—and she needed someone there to help her along. He didn't have to hold her hand through everything, per se, just kind of stand on the sidelines and make sure she didn't fall off the tight rope as she walked along.

_Why the fuck is this so hard?_ Amon's mind wondered as he stared into the light-darkness. It seemed impossible for him to simply do as his mind told him, to stand on the sidelines and watch Robin as she made her way. Every little wobble she had sent him to clutching at the air, rushing to break her potential fall; every pause for regaining balance she took found him taking her hand again, walking her along. And what was worse was the more that he helped her, the more of himself he opened, the weaker his self-control got. Jesus, he'd been ready to kiss her the other night, because he found himself incapable of doing anything else.

But then came the phone call from Reznik, which was not a good thing, yet in some way Amon was almost _thankful_ the man had called. It had prevented him from doing one of the stupidest things he'd ever done in his life.

He needed to collect himself. He needed to step back, far away from the sidelines, and do a balancing act of his own. Somewhere along the way he'd lost track of his original plan and it was really starting to mess things up, the longer he simply played it by ear.

The footsteps of the ghost in the other room were moving across the floorboards, towards his door. Amon sighed heavily and dropped his head into his hands, resisting the urge to groan. Knuckles, plain as day, rapped against the door gently. "Come in, Robin," he said plainly, and the door opened a crack to reveal Robin's china-white face, her china-white arms and legs stretching on for miles. Her hair hung around her face, pillow-crimped.

"You can't sleep either?" she asked, timidly. He lifted his head out of his hands and looked at her from across the room, forcing his face to be stoic, stern, his mask forced on despite the fact it felt as if it didn't fit as well as it once did, dust from disuse tickling the inside of his nose.

"I was sleeping," he lied, "until I heard you moving about in the other room. What are you doing?" he asked, and Robin shrank behind the door some like a shy cat.

"I can't sleep," she answered meekly, undoubtedly associating the tension in his voice with allegedly being roused from sleep. "I…keep thinking about this place. Amsterdam, I mean," she explained. "And I keep thinking about how it is as if we've simply come in one giant circle…a loop. It feels like a downward spiral, somehow, like we're on a round slide going downward…"

Amon didn't want to talk. He didn't want to find himself saying too much, saying more than he meant to, getting too close. Robin hovered half in her room, half in his, his attitude keeping her there in uncertainty. He looked at her pointedly, fixing her with the full weight of his gaze.

"Robin." He sounded cold, clean, detached—like he'd used to sound, so long ago, before his control had started to erode. "You're letting your imagination run away with you."

She looked almost _hurt_. He'd let her see too much, earlier, in the car; she knew that he was as uneasy as her about being back in Amsterdam, perhaps had an inkling that he couldn't shake the feeling that they were biting their own tail, as well. "Amon…today, all day long, in my head—"

Jesus, _fuck_, he didn't want to hear it. He _couldn't_ hear it, because if he heard it, Amon knew it was going to trigger some reflex in him that made him want to comfort her, made him want to hold her and protect her from everything. "Robin. I am _tired_. You woke me up with your pacing. Stop thinking about these things, save them for the morning, and go back to sleep."

Robin was obviously startled, moving behind the door even further. "Oh. I'm sorry. I'll tell you about…" She pondered something and then shook her head quickly, eyes downcast. "…never mind. Sorry. It's silly anyway, I suppose." Without another word, another breath, Robin closed the door and the residual outreach of Amon's Craft could hear her pad across the floor and hop into the bed, the springs of the mattress squeaking under her meager weight.

He remained frozen in his spot on the edge of the bed for quite some time after Robin had left, his brain locked into thought.

Amon needed to be a responsible adult, a warden, not some confused, emotional boy.

………………………………….

The bathtub wasn't filled all the way, just enough to keep her warm as she lie on her side with her head pillowed up on her hands, eyes staring the hundred-yard-stare of the sleepless into the side of the porcelain tub. Her slip was hanging from the back of the door, a towel lying untouched on the counter of the sink.

She'd been emptying and refilling the bathtub for the last two hours, changing out the water whenever it got cold. It had to have been dawn by then, perhaps a little past. Robin couldn't sleep, had not been able to—how does one sleep with a riot going on in their mind? Her head was so sensitive, defenses worn down by the voices, that she could hear them with her _eyes_, with her _sinuses_, her _mouth_.

Something wasn't right. It wasn't supposed to be like this. When had she lost control of the Otherworld? Had she ever really rightly _had_ control of it? Shifting slightly in the lukewarm water, Robin rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling of the bathroom, eyes wide and vapid. If this kept up, she didn't know what she was going to do.

Was this the beginning of the loss of control, the backwards slide into insanity caused by the Craft when one could not control it? It had begun to frighten her so much last night that she had endeavored to tell Amon about it, only to be coldly rebuffed by a grumpy, sleep-denied attitude. Perhaps it was something out of her control telling her not to tell Amon; after all, there was little he would have been able to do, anyway. Telling him that she had voices in her head that she couldn't stop would do little more than rouse his suspicion, his distrust, his frustration. Amon had a hard enough time dealing with his own lack of control over the Craft. And she already knew that he was continually ill-at-ease with her Craft, as it was.

It seemed at times as if he was incapable of dealing with Robin's control-struggles, every mention of them bringing a detached, vacant look to his eyes—the same eyes that had stared down the barrel of a gun at her more than once, only once right in front of her. In their time living together, Robin had sensed that she and Amon were beginning to understand each other better, to know each other as human beings rather than simple partners, but she did not doubt for one instant that Amon would kill her if he had to.

He would stop her from hurting herself or anyone else. And deep within, honestly, Robin supported his promise. She didn't want to hurt anyone. She didn't want to lose control of herself, lash out blindly at everything and everyone, especially not now that her powers seemed to be growing—especially when she seemed to be able to kill people with a mere thought.

But while there was still control left in her body, no matter how tremulous, she was going to fight to keep it, and she was going to fight to convince Amon that she had it.

This, this though…this wasn't right. Robin gritted her teeth, fury building within her at her inability to make her own mind do as it should.

"Shut _up_," she hissed through clenched teeth at the ceiling, wet hands clutching spasmodically at white, wet arms.

…………………………………..

Something wasn't right, that much was obvious immediately. Large, nicotine-stained fingertips rubbing at his chin, Nagira watched the pair's approach from across the lobby. Everything had seemed relatively fine and normal last night, before they'd retired. This was an entirely different story, a story that suggested that perhaps a couple of chapters had been skipped and the book was being read backwards.

Amon looked arthritic, overly stern. He looked like someone's furious grade-school teacher, his eyes snapping around to rest on objects with a hidden tension behind them instead of just simply drifting about from place to place. Circles were present under his eyes, suggesting an uneasy sleep or perhaps very little at all.

Meanwhile, Robin looked flat out like twice-hammered dog shit. Her eyes were glossed over, vacant, fixing on one point and staring at it—more like through it. Limbs limp like a puppet with unmanned strings, she slunk along at Amon's side, her hair loose and wet around her face. The same circles that were present under Amon's eyes were present under Robin's, only more pronounced. Robin looked as if she'd smeared purple eyeshadow under her eyes, and somehow the garish sleep-rings under her eyes made her green eyes that much more unsettling.

"Well good morning," Nagira said, trying to keep the shock out of his voice. "You two finally decided to join the land of the living?"

His only response was a noncommittal grunt from Amon. An eyebrow raising, Nagira nodded. "Fair enough. Sleep okay?" he continued conversationally, even though it had been obvious that neither one of them had. An idea, fleeting, passed through Nagira's mind—had they slept poorly _apart_ or _together_?

"Fine," Amon replied bluntly.

"I couldn't sleep," Robin muttered, and she sounded like a zombie. Nagira looked down at her; poor kid, she really needed her sleep, didn't she? "…too many things on my mind." Nagira wasn't certain if that sentence was supposed to have had a beginning or not, so he said nothing in response. An odd thing happened then—Robin opened her mouth as if she meant to speak, but no words came out. After watching her for a moment, she simply closed her mouth and resumed staring into nothing.

Even more strangely, Amon seemed either to not notice or not care about Robin's obvious zombification. Nagira began to suspect that aliens had taken his brother and Robin away and replaced them with drones. Not even _these two_ were this morose, usually.

"How about you go back upstairs, kid?" Nagira said suddenly, moving to take Robin by the shoulders and walking with her towards an elevator. Amon looked on in disgruntlement, unmoving. "Did you not sleep all night?" he asked of Robin, who shook her head negatively after a moment of no response. It was almost as if she couldn't hear him. "In my bag, upstairs, there's a bottle of pills—remember the one I gave Amon on the plane?" he asked, looking for some sort of affirmative response from Robin. He got none. Jesus, what was _wrong_ with her? "Take one of those out and get some water, and take it. It'll put you out for a while. I guarantee it."

With that, Nagira sent Robin into the elevator, where she faded into the crowd like a drab watercolour painting, half-heartedly remembering to reach out and tentatively poke the button for her floor. The doors slid shut after a moment, leaving Nagira with the final impression of Robin staring blankly at some spot that was between his feet and his knees.

He turned and jerked a thumb back at the elevator, looking at his brother across the lobby, a look of confused disbelief on his face. Amon was pointedly stoic. The lawyer stalked back towards his brother and stood before him, questions lining up in his mind. "What the hell is _that_ all about?" Nagira began, almost irately. "Poor kid is acting like she's already been into the pills in my bag. Do you know anything about what's wrong with her?" After a moment of silence in which Amon stared at Nagira with his best impassive mask, Nagira's face turned critical and suspicious. "Perhaps a better question would be if you have anything to _do_ with what's wrong with her."

"If you ask me, she's attempting to be coddled," Amon replied finally, sourly. He sounded more bitter than usual, especially where Robin was concerned. "I'm tired of doing it, Syunji. That girl has got to learn that she can't just cry about everything all the time and expect us to pick up the pieces. We are _not_ her emotional sounding boards."

Nagira was regarding Amon with blatant disbelief. "You're joking, right? Not even _you_ are this heartless. Is this all because you said something to her?"

Amon stared at his brother in response once more, and then turned and began to walk towards the front doors. Nagira was soon hot on his heels, anger written plainly upon his face. "You are a _fuck_. I hope you know that, Amon. So you've decided that you just want to be an island, all to yourself, wallowing alone in your misery?" Amon stopped with his gloved hands on the brass bar for one of the front doors, staring down at them with a tightly controlled look on his face as Nagira stood at his side, leaning over into his face. "Fine. But I just want you to know something, because Robin doesn't understand enough about you to be able to say it. You are fucking _sick_, little brother, _sick_. If you don't want Robin to want to be coddled, maybe then you should quit doing it of your own free will and then punish her for becoming used to it."

Nagira was shaking his head, and Amon was still standing frozen, a tic in his cheek. Other patrons of the hotel moved around them, completely oblivious. "And your sick little emo kid act is getting in the way of your warden job," Nagira went on, in a growl. "You just let Robin go upstairs by herself when she's not even capable of forming a complete sentence. Oh, but don't worry about it! You go on, do whatever it was you were going to do. _I'll_ go coddle her."

Nagira, for once truly angry, made a noise of disgust and turned away from his brother, heading for the elevator. When he looked back over his shoulder, momentarily, to see if Amon was still standing frozen at the door, his brother had disappeared.

In the elevator up to the rooms, Nagira ran a hand over his gelled hair, sighing. The two other people in the elevator looked at him curiously and discreetly, but he ignored them. The elevator chimed on arrival at the third floor, and Nagira stepped out, headed for his room, hands in his pockets. Slipping the keycard into the lock, the door unlocked and he found Robin lying flopped in his bed, a plastic cup of water next to the bed.

"Hey kid," he greeted. "You take that pill?"

"Mm-hmm." Robin's reply was slow in the coming. Nagira moved to the side of the bed and looked down at the slight form of the blonde girl laid out on the bed, her little black mary-jane shoes sticking out from under her skirt, one black sock slightly bunched around her ankle. "So what's wrong?" he asked, looking down at her. One glazed green eye appeared above her still-coat clad arm and blinked at him, slowly.

"I am tired," she replied. Momentary silence ensued while Robin gathered her thoughts. "Last night, I tried to tell Amon…I don't feel well."

Nagira tilted his head at her. "Flu, or something?"

"No…" Robin's face went back down into the pillows. The next time she spoke her voice was muffled. "The voices in my mind…the witches…they won't be quiet. I can't sleep. I can't think. I don't know what to do."

This was an unexpected development; and if Amon knew about it, it could have been what was causing his bizarre, cruel mood. Nagira's face softened with concern, masking the internal _oh shit_ he was thinking. "Does Amon know?"

"No. I tried…" Robin sounded exhausted. "It hasn't been happening for very long." Her tiny body, dwarfed by her coat and the bed, shifted some. "What if…I'm losing control…?"

Nagira shook his head quickly, not allowing himself to contemplate the possibilities. "No, no. I'm sure you're just exhausted, stressed-out. Get some sleep and you'll feel better."

…………………………….

Robin's eyes opened as if she'd merely blinked them; a very long, curiously _blank_ blink. She moved upwards slowly, realizing that she was lying in bed but that it was not her own. It was Nagira's, and she remembered stumbling into his room and opening the little green bottle, swallowing one of the white pills with a thirsty gulp of water, remembered lying on the bed and speaking with Nagira very briefly.

Then she'd blinked. Hours later, the blink had finished, and it appeared to have been growing dark outside. She groaned a little, rubbing her eyes. She'd slept all day and felt bad for it, but then remembered that she hadn't slept all night. Perhaps sleeping all day was warranted then.

The train of thought stopped dead in its tracks and Robin froze, her body hearkening to hear something that was no longer there. The voices had stopped, disappeared, receded back into her mind where they belonged, silent until she asked for them. A relieved, happy sigh brushed between Robin's lips, and she sat up, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. The sound of the television was echoing from her room, and she moved from Nagira's bed to her room.

Finn and Nagira looked up at her upon her entrance through the connecting door, and she offered them a quiet smile by way of greeting. Nagira smiled, full and wide, looking very relieved.

"You're awake, finally," he said. "Are you feeling any better?" Finn was nodding, as if to wordlessly ask the same question.

Robin smiled at them still, moving into the room. "Yes. _Much_ better." Shedding her coat and bending down to remove her shoes, Robin sat down on the edge of her bed and looked at the television with a detached interest. "What's going on?" she asked, wanting an update.

"Well," Finn began, "we're sitting here on our asses doing nothing, and Tryg and Sig were busy in their room contacting a bunch of coven members. Tryg wants to try to get them all together at the house again, soon. Eirikur's sleeping, and Mr. Sunshine is mysteriously absent."

Robin's brow furrowed at Finn's interesting nickname for Amon. There was no one else among them that could have been called 'Mr. Sunshine' in such a sarcastic voice. Nagira's face was darkened with displeasure at the mere mention of Amon, and Robin could only assume that something had happened while she slept. Amon _had_ been unusually surly last night and that morning, but she was used to Amon's surly moods. Even if they did hurt her feelings, at times, she was used to them.

"And he'd better become mysteriously _un_absent with a quickness," Nagira groused, looking over at Robin. "We need to be ready to go in about two and a half hours. That's plenty of time to get ready but I have this sinking feeling that Amon will come waltzing in with ten minutes to spare."

Confusion permeated Robin's brain. "Where did he go, anyway?"

Silence befell the room, and Finn shrugged. "Dunno. Last time anyone saw him was this morning, so who knows?"

Confusion morphed into worry in Robin's mind. It wasn't like Amon to just _disappear_—well, not in this situation, anyway. In the old days, in their past life, Amon had come and gone as he pleased, but not now. Never now, not since the running had began. What if something had happened? They were in Amsterdam, after all, a place they knew that SOLOMON associated with them…and Amon, alone, could possibly be easily captured or killed, depending upon his Craft. Before she knew it, Robin's heart was pounding.

"Perhaps we should go look for him," she suggested suddenly, and Nagira looked at her with a frown. Standing, she looked at him urgently. "Something might have happened."

Gently optimistic, Finn smiled at Robin. "I'm sure nothing has happened. He'll be back."

"I am not going to look for that kid." Nagira sounded rather put-out, and Robin's brain reeled—something _really_ bad must have happened between the brothers today. "I told him how I felt this morning and he apparently didn't have anything to say about it, so that's that. He'll come back when he feels like it…when he decides to grow up."

A pained expression on her face, Robin turned to Nagira once more. "Nagira, something might have happened. SOLOMON could be in the city, or perhaps the committee…we already know they're here." Her face was starting to crumple with worry and fear and Nagira's face was softening in response. "If something happens with his Craft, and he loses control of it, he becomes basically helpless…"

A war of wills raged quietly and subtly between Nagira and Robin. Nagira caved eventually, standing with a sigh; he realized that Robin was right, and he didn't want her going out by herself to look for Amon. "Ah, shit. You're right." Brown eyes alit upon Robin with something akin to irony in them. "You coddle him, you know that?"

Already in the process of pulling her shoes on again, Robin looked up distractedly. "…coddle? Amon?" The two words simply did not belong together in a sentence, especially when in conjunction with each other. Amon could _not_ be coddled.

"Yeah. He runs off, like a little baby, off to sulk and be an asshole and be generally…_emo_," Nagira said, sourly (and Robin quietly wondered what _emo_ meant), "and you always go running after him, making sure he's alright. …Which he always _is_, I hope you know. This is the same shit Amon has done for years."

A faint vibrating noise was heard, and Finn dug into the pocket of his pants, retrieving a cell phone. Muttering some sort of polite exit phrase, he went out into the hallway, answering the phone just before he left the room. Robin's eyes moved back to Nagira, fixing them with a rather emotional green stare. "I'm just worried about him," she defended, quietly. "I don't care _why_ he left. I just want to make sure that he's alright."

A laboured breath came from Nagira. "That's exactly what he wants you to do."

Robin was silent. Despite her own misgivings about what Amon truly meant to do sometimes, she couldn't believe that he would be so…_manipulative_. She also couldn't believe that he would engage in such a blatant ploy for attention, especially from her—he never particularly seemed to want her attention before, nor attention from anyone. However, at the same time her mind recalled the night on the train, when she'd made too many connections about how Amon dealt with her and he'd become _angry_. Could Nagira possibly be right? Would Amon do something as foolish as putting himself in deliberate danger just to garner attention from her?

"He will come back," the lawyer stated firmly and knowingly. He withdrew a cigarette from the never-ending pack and lit it, exhaling smoke. "He'll come back when he gets tired of brooding and realizes that you're smarter than that and that you will not come chasing after him."

……………………………………

The room was dark, but he didn't need to see; for the first time in as long as he could remember his mind and his power didn't try to compensate for the dark, try to make it lighter. He didn't need to see, his hands and mouth and skin could do all the seeing; her breath warm and humid over his lips and in his mouth, her tiny hands with their perfectly shaped nails and long, delicate fingers splaying out eagerly over his skin, her soft, muted blonde hair twisted into one of his hands to slide between his fingers like a length of silk. Orange and ginger—decidedly Japanese—burned in his nostrils, the scent of her hair carrying the ghost of whatever shampoo she'd been using.

She shivered and startled under his touch, his hands desperately trying to touch and know every inch of her; her soft, slightly-goosefleshed skin was burning into his body, into his memory, into his mouth as he trailed it along her shoulder, her arm. Muscles in slender limbs and a shapely back twitched and strained, her body arcing into whatever touches he made on her. Her mouth fell open, lips pink, swollen, and glistening, to emit a breathy gasp that was so beautiful and rapturous that it almost broke his heart to hear it.

The willowy body beneath him moved in amazing sync with his own, the heart pounding furiously beneath the white skin. Arms with tiny wrists that were dwarfed in his hands wrapped around him, a trembling fist gripping his hair to guide his lips to her neck—a slim thigh grasped in his hand, lifting the leg slightly upward—a plaintive, fervent utter of his name, voice high and breathy and right in his ear—

…………………………………………

"_Fuck_." Amon was bolt upright in an instant, the word flying from his mouth on instinct. One hand held the pillow he'd been laying on in a death grip, arm shaking with the effort. He suddenly noted that his whole _body_ was shaking slightly. Robin was standing in the doorway to his room from her own, looking almost frightened and hurriedly apologetic.

"I'm sorry," she breathed quickly, breaking eye contact with him as he sat, disheveled and breathing hard in his bed, wild-eyed and strung tighter than a piano wire. "I'd said your name several times…you were asleep." He said nothing to her, only looked at her. She hazarded quick glances back at him every so often, still too intimidated and startled to look him full in the face. "I…I'm not certain when you returned from…wherever you were, but Sigrún just stopped by my room and told me that we should start to get ready, that we will be leaving in a little over an hour…"

Amon couldn't manage to tear his bewildered stare away from Robin's fidgeting form, nor could he bring himself to lower its intensity. First she invaded his dreams and then he awoke to discover that she had invaded his room. Green eyes met his grey briefly and it nearly sent an electric jolt through him. Jesus, it was as if he was still dreaming. "How did you know I was here?" he asked abruptly, almost harshly.

Robin looked cowed. "I…kind of didn't. I thought I would check your room, to see if perhaps you had returned, before I went to Sigrún to have her help me prepare…" She trailed off, hesitantly. "…I felt your presence, a bit. I didn't think I'd feel it if you were not nearby."

_Felt_ his presence. His mind reeled. He prayed to whatever semblance of God he still believed in that Robin didn't up and become a mind reader one of these days.

"I will be ready shortly." Robin nodded quickly in response to his blunt statement, and excused herself quietly from his room. He stared after her for a moment, attempting to slow his breathing.

After he'd spent a few good, long minutes calming himself sufficiently (which involved a lot of staring at the ceiling with mind blank, completely immobile, regulating his breathing), Amon sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed at his eyes. He'd been gone most of the day, his feet taking him back to the semi-familiar neighbourhood that Robin and he had frequented during their time in Amsterdam. It had been stupid of him to do such a thing, a whim of angry nostalgia that he'd entertained out of lack of things to do. For hours he'd wandered, hands jammed in overcoat pockets, face numbed in the onslaught of the cold wind. The fog rolled in and rolled out and rolled back in again, and Amon found himself feeling lost, suddenly, alienated and odd.

He'd come back to the hotel. In a fit of secrecy, he'd come back to his room and laid in the bed, hearing the voices of the others in Robin's room but refusing to go to them or let them know that he had returned. Eventually, weary from his ill-slept night, he fell asleep.

And now he was standing, sober and forcing his mask back into place, beginning to unbutton his shirt. A scent only discernable to his nose was permeating his being, the scent of nervousness and shame at being unable to stop himself from dreaming of Robin so. The familiar scent was mixed in with the one he'd picked up from the fog in Amsterdam, the scent of past failure and defeated retreat.

He was going to shower before he did anything. The scents were making him mad.

………………………….

Robin was glad that her dress was too long. Sigrún had all but had a minor coronary when she'd discovered that they had neglected to purchase shoes for Robin in the process of assisting the Eve of Witches to get ready. It had been too late to do anything about it, there was no time to go out and find shoes for Robin.

Luckily the dress was long. No one was going to notice that under her very elegant and expensive-looking dress that she was wearing the same old black mary janes. They'd also neglected to purchase her a coat that would match her dress, so she was clad in the same old blue peacoat that Nagira had bought her. It was the only coat she'd brought along, and the only one that was suited to the elements. If it hadn't been for her carefully parted hair, straight and glossed to perfection, and the dress, Robin figured she would have looked completely rag-tag.

Nagira seemed to be amused by it. At least _someone_ got amusement out of the situation.

Her dress was long, amazingly white, and satin. Robin had moved about in it a token stiffly, afraid to brush the skirt against anything lest she dirty it (yet another thing Nagira had been amused by). Starting from her knees down, there were stark black maple-leaf branch designs, something that had struck her as oddly Japanese for the style of the dress; Robin had been reminded of some kind of very plain kimono pattern when she'd seen the dress. Sigrún had found it fitting. Robin's skin, in contrast to the dress, looked even _whiter_, but all of her other features looked almost eerily enhanced. Her eyes, if possible, were even _brighter_ green. Her hair looked truly auburn blonde for once, instead of the plain mousy colour it always looked—or so Robin thought.

She didn't look real. She didn't feel real. She felt like someone's large doll, terrified and nervous and stiff, and she kept busy with chewing the inside of her lip to shreds in the car on the way to the appointed estate. Nagira—whom had insisted upon driving—looked over at her in concern. With typical Nagira flair, he was brightly dressed about sixteen ways from Sunday. His grey suit and salmon-pink shirt went together startlingly well, and his grey and darker pink tie topped it off. Nagira was the only man alive who could get away with wearing pink and still look dashing.

"You're not gonna have a lip left by the time we get there," he commented, and in the back seat Amon looked at Robin but did not say a word. She'd _felt_ his eyes on her. Amon was like a shadow in the backseat, silent and black. His mood was black, his clothing was black, his whole outlook on the evening was black. At Nagira's disgruntled urging, Amon had changed his black dress shirt to a grey one and shortly declared that _yes_, grey was a colour.

He'd stared at her briefly, before entering the car. Robin sighed. She probably looked as odd as she felt, all dressed up but somehow managing to not even get _that_ right.

"I'm getting you two Prozac for Christmas," Nagira commented finally, tiredly, into the stark silence of the car.

………………………………..

Luckily doormen had taken Robin's coat away from her before anyone could have really noticed how mismatched she looked. They were all handing away their coats, and Robin found herself wondering how the multiple doormen could keep track of which coats belonged to which guests. There must have been a fairly complex system to it all.

She realized she was attempting to distract herself from the abject fear she had brewing in her gut. As the group moved down a large, vaulted hallway, following Trygve, Robin watched the faces of the people who passed them. Most of them seemed rather confused, probably wondering where _these_ people had come from, having not seen herself or any of the others at the auction that had supposedly preceded the gathering. Most of the people were older and extremely well-dressed; the men greying and immaculate in their suits, the women perfectly made up and adorned with jewelry that probably cost as much as a small car.

Watching the people they passed, Robin realized why they were looking at the group oddly, at her in particular—she was easily the youngest person there that she'd seen so far. Well, save Eirikur, but he didn't really count.

Along the way to wherever Trygve was leading them, Sigrún was distracted and detained by a woman who looked very happy to see her, and even happier to see Eirikur in her arms. The group was momentarily stalled by Sigrún's stop, but she told them to go along without her; she was going to catch up the woman. They moved on.

After a few minutes of walking through the massive house, passing crowds of people and rooms (and after Nagira had hooked a beverage of some sort from a passing maid), Finn looked to Trygve. "Where the hell are we going?" he asked.

"To the same place I've always met up with Reznik whenever I attend this gathering," Trygve replied, his voice calm. "He always seems to be in the same room at the same time, looking over the spoils of the auction with others. Perhaps he _waits_ there for me."

Finn made a noise of acceptance and after passing a few more rooms on the second floor of the mansion, Trygve opened a heavy, ornately carved wooden door to reveal several men in a room—one of whom was Reznik. He looked up from the painting he'd been looking at—at least it looked like a painting from the back—and grinned broadly, looking like a wolf.

Robin noticed disturbingly familiar aspects in the smile, aspects that she'd seen in Amon's smile, rare as it was. The face seemed to move in vaguely the same way; perhaps common among men of Czech descent? Irrationally a little voice in her head screeched about possible relation, but she squelched it down. Now she was _really_ being ridiculous, her fear making her imagination rampant.

Belatedly she realized she was the only female in the room. And she was still the youngest person she'd seen so far. Reznik's grin did not waver even as his eyes settled upon the two unfamiliar people in the party, Finn and Nagira, even if his eyes did speak of either mild interest or disgruntlement. He moved across the room to them, grasping Trygve in a sudden bear-hug. "How good of you to come, friends! I see that there are new members among you—or are you just multiplying?"

The multiplying comment seemed to insinuate that they were in a league with something that would multiply rapidly, such as insects or vermin. This was not lost on Robin. Trygve managed a gracious smile and indicated Finn. "This is my brother-in-law, Finn DeSoto, from America. He is a Witch, like you and I," Trygve added at Reznik's faint _and?_ Look.

"Earth craft," Finn added with a smile that seemed as gracious as Trygve's, and a firm handshake. "Not too strong with the actual _earth_ end of the Craft, never was…but I've got a fairly awesome grasp on the illusory end of the power, if I do say so myself."

"Splendid!" Reznik said and then turned to Nagira, who was taking a drink from his glass, and eyeing the men smoking pipes and cigars in the room, reaching as if he was going for his cigarettes. "And you, sir?" the Czech man said, watching Nagira closely.

"I'm Nagira Syunji," said the lawyer. Placing his pack of cigarettes in the same hand as the glass, he reached out and gave Reznik a handshake. "A lawyer, from Japan. I'm about as human as human can be, but I do seem to have a peculiar affinity for you and your kind in my work."

Reznik's face tightened momentarily but released very quickly. "So _you_ are the fabled lawyer I hear about."

Nagira, not even bothering to ask if he could smoke cigarettes in the room, lit up and looked at Reznik with raised eyebrows. "Oh? Didn't know I was famous."

"I hear the stories out of Japan, sometimes," Reznik said simply, looking at Nagira's cigarette with pointed shock, as if he couldn't believe that the man possessed the audacity to light up without asking. Ignoring Nagira for the moment, Reznik turned to Amon, who looked as stony as ever, staring back at the man impassively. "Amon! _Dobry večer! _Good evening!"

Nodding curtly, Amon appeared as if internally debating whether or not he wanted to say anything back. "To you, as well." Apparently he did not wish to speak Czech, which was almost inevitably the language Reznik was speaking. Moving away from the reticent Amon, Reznik's eyes finally alit upon Robin and she forced a polite smile onto her face. He took her hands in his, that same sharp, winning grin on his face, and leaned away from her.

"And you, Robin! _Moje mila! Dej mi pusu!_ My dearest! Give me a kiss!" His words, in Czech, had no meaning to Robin, but she sensed Amon bristle at them—which, possibly, had been why Reznik had said them, whatever they were. He leaned forward and exchanged polite cheek pecks with her and then leaned back to appraise her once again. "_Ty si hezka holka._ You are such a pretty girl. How do all of these men allow you out in public?"

"We keep a close eye on her," Nagira replied around an exhale of smoke. "Lots of weirdos out there, you know."

"Indeed," Reznik said, still looking at Robin. "If your harem will allow you away for a moment, I'd like to show you something." He took her by the arm and led her over to the painting he'd been admiring previously, a portrait of young girl sitting upon a rock. Her doe-like, curiously blank brown eyes stared directly out at the observer, the fingers on one of her hands hooked almost _teasingly_ in her sock, pulling it off. "It is called _Avant Le Bain_, one of William Bouguereau's paintings. I spent a decent sum to win this, this evening."

Robin stared into the eyes of the girl, feeling faintly as if the painting was somehow _voyeuristic_, despite the fact that the young girl was still completely clothed. "Before The Bath," she murmured, and then remembered to say something else. "It's lovely."

"Yes, very," Reznik agreed, smiling down at her. "But enough of this gazing at ancient paintings. Shall we go downstairs, all?" He looked from Robin to the rest of the group.

……………………………….

Robin's heart lurched in her chest. She'd been more or less attached to Reznik's side all evening, unable to get away, inevitably trailed faintly by one of the men or Sigrún. At times they came up directly and engaged them in conversation, engaged in conversation with whomever Reznik happened to be introducing Robin to. In Amon's case, several times he had come up and stood next to Robin and Reznik, silent, but somehow watching ominously. To Robin's great unease, shortly after Amon had left their side for the final time that evening, she was suddenly and unceremoniously passed from Reznik to Julien, the Frenchman on the committee. She hadn't actually spoken with the man at length, and he seemed fairly harmless—as harmless as anyone associated with the committee could be—but she didn't _know_ him, and she remained stiff as a board with her arm linked through his, affording her no escape.

"Ah, Robin," he said to her, accent strong, "how does it feel to be back in Amsterdam?"

_He knew we'd been here, as well?_ Robin's mind asked itself, nervously. "Fine, I suppose." She drew a blank. What else was she supposed to say about it? _I hate being here and all I can think about is either you or SOLOMON around every corner?_ "Do you…um, come here often?"

Julien shrugged noncommittally, looking bored. "Not really. I don't care for it here. I'm much fonder of France. Plus, it's easier for me to manipulate SOLOMON from there."

Something in Robin's head clicked after a moment but she shoved it away, afraid to dwell upon it or think about it in detail. It crept back in, however: _this man knew we'd been here in the Netherlands, before. He probably knows that SOLOMON Hunted us, here. And he casually drops a mention about working with SOLOMON? …was it really so casual?_

"What? You look disturbed, my dear," Julien said, but something about his accented voice had changed. It seemed _smug_. "Oh, SOLOMON is very easily manipulated. They're mostly brainless, easily deceived. Very easy to control." He smiled. "They're not much smarter than an attack dog on a chain, trained to follow certain commands."

Robin had to fight to keep her eyes from widening. This was not casual conversation. He was telling her something, blunt under the polite front. "I see." Her voice, remarkably, did not sound as horrified as she felt. This was how they'd known that she and Amon had been in Amsterdam before—they'd ordered SOLOMON to Hunt them there! There could be no other explanation, Robin felt, unless she was somehow mistaken. She didn't feel very mistaken, however.

"You look as if you are scaring her to death," a female voice said suddenly, and Robin was transferred from one arm to another yet again. Lookng up, her face froze and nearly fell. "_Buenos noches, gatita. _Have you been well since I last saw you?"

Robin stared blankly into Paz's face, her stomach roiling. "Yes," she managed. Her mouth was dry and so were her vocal chords. No other words would come. Paz looked from Robin to Julien and made a sharp hissing noise, waving her free hand at him impatiently.

"Go away," she snapped, shortly. "Go frighten someone else." Julien shot the woman a particularly spiteful look and turned away, wandering out into the crowd of laughing, chatting, well-dressed people. Paz turned to Robin then, waiting until Julien was out of sight. "That man angers me so. So incompetent."

Robin managed a nod in reply. "Oh." Swallowing non-existent saliva in an effort to wet her throat, Robin forced out more words. "I…haven't seen all of your colleagues, tonight."

"Yes," Paz answered, beginning to walk through the crowd with Robin. Their proximity was that of close girlfriends, walking down the street together, but Robin wanted nothing more than to turn tail and run. "Donald—that rich old bag—is not one for art, or so he says. He never attends." Paz rolled her carefully-lined eyes. "Oskari is detained off-Continent, helping to take out _la basura_."

"The garbage?" Robin managed, weakly, wondering what Paz had meant.

"Trouble in Iceland," the Spaniard replied, at which more horrifying connections were made in Robin's mind. "But you already know about that, _gatita_. Someone has to pick up the mess. SOLOMON is too incompetent to take care of their own."

The implications of how far this was reaching were starting to make Robin sweat, faintly. She felt small, alone, _hunted_, especially without the reassuring presence of either Nagira or Amon nearby. It scared her to think that they'd come this far, gone this deep far in without realizing how deep they were digging the hole about their head. As the pieces came together in Robin's head, she realized that they weren't just digging a hole, they were digging a _grave_.

And the smiling faces of SOLOMON and the committee were waiting at the top, atop the growing mounds of dirt, waiting to push it all back in on top of them.

"You aren't stupid, _gatita_." Paz was looking at her, solemnly, their movement stopping suddenly in a small alcove just outside of the main room, away from the crowd. Robin's heart pounded double time, her skin burning with a Craft begging to defend herself somehow. One quick flame—a burst so hot that possibly no one would even see it, not even ashes left behind—and this woman would be gone from her life. "You are naïve, but you are not stupid. You know the roles of power." Here Paz paused for effect, allowing the unfinished statement to sink in: _and you are not the upper hand_. "SOLOMON is a tool that has long since outlived its usefulness to us. You, too, know that they are as untrustworthy as they are foolish—they turned on you yourself, _gatita_, unaware what they let get away."

Robin's mind conjured Finn's words from the dining room the other night, his knowledge of the committee and SOLOMON's history together, and how Toudou—her father—whatever he was—had fit into it all. They rang through her head, echoingly: _I don't know what they're trying to do. Remember that they had originally wanted Robin dead, when she was an infant. SOLOMON was the thing that kept her alive, and then they lost control of her…it could be possible that the committee will use Robin to scare SOLOMON for as long as they see fit. _"You want to use me against SOLOMON."

Paz nodded slowly. "Yes, _gatita_. We are prepared to make a deal with you and your warden. Do you really think you two alone, with the assistance of a rag-tag group of witches who fear SOLOMON and my colleagues can accomplish anything? Especially when you are not fully aware of the powers of the Arcanum, when your warden cannot even manage his own Craft, does not even know what it is?" She looked vaguely triumphant at Robin's almost guilty look. "We can help you, protect you. We can help your friends, as long as you remember that _we_ are the ones who did it."

Silence. "As long as you help us start to break SOLOMON down." Paz eyed Robin powerfully, intensely. "This is a most gracious offer, Robin Sena. Your games of the Eve nonsense will stop. You accomplish nothing save upsetting the balances of power, and you do not even know where you will go from there, living day to day. It would be better for you to come with us. We know the balances of power, we know where you could strike to cause the most damage. You wish SOLOMON gone, yes?"

Robin looked at Paz, wishing that it was all as simple as the older woman was making it sound. Finn's words echoed in her head, on an endless loop. _…remember that they had originally wanted Robin dead, when she was an infant…_ "And what then?" the blonde asked, suddenly, catching Paz somewhat off-guard. "After SOLOMON is gone. What then? What usefulness will we have? What would you have done with us?"

"Why, nothing!" Paz exclaimed in an undertone, one of her hands cradling Robin's face. Robin's skin felt as if it wanted to crawl away from the touch. "You and us, we are the same, _gatita_. We would accept you, just for what you were."

It occurred to Robin that she had been deliberately passed between committee members all evening long in an effort to break her away from the presence of her confidantes, her protection. They'd planned this. They knew that alone, she was quiet, unsure. "This…this would have to be considered with the others," Robin said slowly. Paz looked disapproving.

"What manners of power have you, if you cannot make decisions for your so-called _followers_?" she asked, her voice sounding almost snappish for a moment. "It is very simple, Robin. You make a decision. We cannot guarantee your protection forever."

"You would send them to kill me." Robin's voice was trembling, accusatory. "You would send SOLOMON to kill me."

Paz looked theatrically indignant. "If you think so." It was neither a confirmation nor a denial. "Contrary to whatever you may believe, they are not the only ones who wish you ill." Robin's refusal to make a commitment was obviously frustrating and irritating the Spanish woman, whose face was contorting slightly with anger. "I offer you my hand in friendship, companionship, whatever you wish, Robin Sena, and you are _spitting_ upon it."

"I spit upon nothing," Robin replied softly, steel under the voice despite the tremors in her body. "I cannot give you an answer now. I will consider it." Green eyes were staring into brown, Robin's skin burning, her being burning, the fear and loathing within her urging the fire to come forth.

"We are not so dissimilar, _gatita_," Paz said, in a voice that was nearly a growl. "We are women of power, surrounded by men who are fools, slow to act; other women who hide in the shadow of the men. You are throwing away an opportunity with your foolishness."

Something in Robin snapped, fiercely, hurt and reviled and angry that the woman in front of her would even _dare_ to liken herself to Robin. Evil, through and through, manipulative and disgusting—Robin could not imagine lowering herself to a level. "You and I are _nothing_ alike," Robin stated firmly, lowly. "I will _never_—"

A hand on Robin's arm jerked her out of her infuriated utterances, and she looked over and up in surprise to see Finn standing there, his face questioning and oblivious. "Hey, I hate to interrupt girl talk," he said mildly, "but the others have been looking for you. Can you excuse us for a sec?" he asked of Paz, who merely glared at him and gave a tight little nod. Robin followed Finn's leading hand and walked away with him, her body still shaking with fear and rage. He looked down at her, sensing something awry.

"…Are you okay?" he asked, as if just realizing that he'd interrupted something very bad.

"No, I'm not." Robin's face was frowning, dark. "I have to speak with Amon. Now."

………………………………

The problem was, Amon was nowhere to be found. Robin's insides twisted and churned with helplessness; the man who had told her he was her monster; that he would help her do anything, laying there that night on the couch in Iceland, was nowhere to be found. Nagira, confused by Robin's urgent and serious air, adopted a serious one of his own and set out with grumbling to locate his missing brother. Finn, also sensing the importance of the situation, volunteered to try to locate Amon as well. Trygve and Sigrún, their son between them, stood with Robin in an anteroom.

"It was all _planned_," Robin was explaining, hurriedly. "They've been telling SOLOMON to chase us, ever since Amsterdam—possibly before. Finn told us of the relationship between the committee and SOLOMON, when I was born…it's just as he said. They're going to use me against SOLOMON, or try to. Then, when my usefulness has passed, they're going to try to kill us."

Sigrún looked to her husband, her face steely. "She is right. We cannot be certain that they inevitably plan to kill her and Amon, possibly us as well, but it is a fair bet. We know them. We know their ways. This reaches further than any of us had seen."

Robin hesitated slightly before adding the next part. "They must have had you two in mind. I…I'm almost certain they were the ones who sent the Hunters to Iceland, after us." She paused, catching the couple's combined anguished look. "…They're the ones who sought you through Gróa's death."

"_Miskunnarlaus _Cruel" Sigrún hissed, her face twisted with rage and repulsion. "_Systir…_what have we done to you?" she said, her voice fading from a hiss to whisper, her face relaxing into sorrow. "This is our fault. We should have seen."

Despite being obviously disturbed and devastated himself, Trygve kept a strong front. "We could not have known."

Robin regretted having brought up Gróa's death, but felt that her hosts should have known about it, for their own purposes. "Paz has threatened, vaguely, our own safety unless this offer is accepted."

"Even the doctor," Sigrún murmured, almost to herself. "They even had our _doctor_ watching us." She bounced Eirikur in her arms gently, distractedly, as the small child rubbed at his face. Robin looked at the couple—the _family_—in front of her, and realized suddenly what a terrible and awful risk they'd taken for her and Amon, and Nagira as well.

"I am so sorry," Robin said, quietly. "I…told Amon once that everywhere we went, death seemed to follow us, and sadness, and awful things…"

Trygve looked to her firmly, his eyes still sad behind his glasses, amplifying the sadness. "No. Robin, we knew these dangers when we undertook this, when we helped you. We were—_are_—prepared to face whatever consequences come to us. We will fight them, but we expected that there would be some."

Sigrún was looking at her as well, her face serious. "You are the Eve. Whatever it takes, someone must accept the consequences, or there can be no hope. Without you, there is no hope."

_She called me hope_. Robin's mind screamed, cried, kicked; unwilling to accept that these people believed in her so much and regarded her so highly that they would sacrifice their own lives, that of their child, for hers to continue. "There won't be any consequences," Robin said, softly, a token reassuringly. "We are going to do something about this."

A sound from behind Robin turned their attention back to the door, where Nagira's head was poking in. "I can't find him," he said, tiredly. "You know how he disappears when he wants to. But…" A faint grimace. "…our absence is starting to be noticed. We need to get back out there. I say we find Amon and get the hell out of here."

"Agreed," Trygve said, nodding. "We need to find Finn as well. After that, we return to the hotel rooms and pack, and leave immediately."

………………………………..

Finding Amon was easier said than done, although Robin knew that she certainly hadn't expected it to be very easy. She didn't think anyone else had, either, deep inside. Finn had been relatively easy to locate, within a ballroom just off the long, tiled main hall. He hadn't caught sight of Robin's erstwhile ex-partner, either.

Something like irritation and a feeling of abandonment was coiling within Robin's chest. Why would he disappear at a time like this? Especially given the shaky nature of the situation—Robin's mind, as usual, began to worry that Amon had been cornered somewhere and lost control of his Craft. She didn't even think he was armed. Upon second thought, she reconsidered that. Amon was hardly _ever_ unarmed, especially in public.

"Look at you all, crowded together like little children on a school trip!" Reznik exclaimed, upon finding the group off to one side of the ballroom. A very miniature orchestra group was playing music, couples dancing about the floor elegantly and ignorantly.

_Perhaps not ignorantly_, Robin's suddenly overly-paranoid (but with good reason) mind added. She managed an even look at Reznik. This man would not intimidate her. She could not _allow_ him to. In Amon's absence, abandoned, she had to act as her _own_ warden. She could not expect anyone else to do it for her if the man who'd sworn to couldn't even do it. Hurt pricked at her heart. "We are actually preparing to leave for the evening," Robin answered, with quiet resolve in the face of Reznik's almost mockingly interested face.

"My wife is not well," Trygve supplemented, somehow managing to retain his mask of polite civility. Such a diplomat, walking carefully among the minefield of enemies. "Regretfully we shall have to leave early this year."

"But your numbers seem to have shrunk one," Reznik pointed out in quiet amusement. "It appears as if my fellow countryman has taken leave of the group."

"He will return shortly," Robin replied before anyone else could. Her voice sounded _testy_ to her ears. Reznik, sensing a sensitive spot, smiled knowingly.

"Well, in his absence, I do believe that _I_ shall have to ask you to dance," he said, taking Robin's hand without warning. "It would be unheard of for you to leave without a dance, first." He looked at Robin with subtle threat. "Not to mention horribly rude."

Her lip wanted to curl but she didn't want to risk anything before they'd even escaped the estate. Acquiescing, Robin followed the tall Czech man towards where the other couples were dancing, looking over her shoulder reassuringly at the group. Nagira, in particular, wore a look of pure murder upon his face.

Oddly enough, various types of ballroom dancing had been one of the things drilled into her head during her Hunter's training. SOLOMON, being a fairly Old World type of organization, insisted that all their Hunters have varying degrees of societal training. Robin had been vaguely confused as a younger girl, during training, why she would need such things, but now she was thankful for them. Reznik guided her to a place on the floor, relatively open, and bowed low to her. The small orchestra was finishing up their previous song and as Robin remembered to curtsy, her insides protesting at such shows of politeness to _this man_.

Her hand touched upon his arm lightly, as if she didn't want to touch too closely, her other hand within his. Reznik's other hand rested upon her side, their fronts together—too close for Robin's comfort, frankly. She'd been a younger girl when she'd learned to dance this way, learning to do so with other younger people. This was too much, too nerve-wracking, too _close_ to Reznik. She wanted to be as far away from him as she could. She fixed her eyes in the correct position, which would have been over his shoulder, if she could have seen over it. Instead she stared blankly into his chest, trying to ignore the way he looked down at her in amusement.

The music started. The steps, which Robin pulled out of her mind, moved precisely as they should, Reznik spinning her about the floor as they moved fluidly along, with all the other couples. She hated him. She hated dancing with him. She wanted to _leave_.

The Viennese Waltz, the most graceful of the ballroom dances, and Robin's mind was so poisoned with fear and hate that she couldn't comprehend how she could think straight enough to perform the dance.

"I take it Paz spoke with you?" Reznik said, out of nowhere, above the music. Robin's eyes jerked up to his face, his grin. They slid back to his chest. "She must have. Suddenly you are not as friendly as you once were."

"I told her I would consider it." Robin didn't want to talk.

"I would suggest you do," Reznik said, looking over in interest at a few couples who had decided to coordinate an interesting, fluid partner change into their continual spins. "The offer does have an expiration date. Circumstances will not allow it to stand forever."

"I will consider it." It was all she could bring herself to say.

"What _else_ shall you do, my little Robin?" he asked of her, laughing somewhat. The situation seemed mighty amusing to Reznik. "You haven't many options. You need the protection we can afford you, and we would like to have your power. We don't necessarily _need_ it, but it would be welcomed."

Robin's face looked up to him, eyes wide and accusatory as they spun around another couple-change. "And then? Afterwards? Paz couldn't answer that question satisfactorily for me." Reznik smiled at her, all cunning and intimidation, and his gaze bored down into her eyes.

"Why don't you ask the man who takes care of those things?" he suggested in a light tone. "That is, he takes care of them when they go _badly_, which I trust that they won't with you." And then she was released from his arms, _flung_ lightly in the middle of a spin, landing unceremoniously in the arms of another. Eyes wide, bewildered, Robin grabbed onto whoever it was awkwardly and looked into the face, eyes going yet wider.

The old Romanian. Teodor. It was no coincidence that Reznik had sent her to him, his hands upon her, her brain feeling transparent. Her body tensed under his touch, her steps stiffening. They could not move with the fluidity or the speed that she and Reznik had moved along with, and she shot a hurried glance over at Reznik, who was stepping back from the floor with laughter, out of the way of spinning couples. Her eyes barely caught Nagira's on the edge of the dance floor. He appeared ready to jump in any moment and start throwing punches.

"So tense!" Teodor exclaimed, squeezing Robin's hand. "You cannot dance when you so tense." Robin's mind felt fuzzy, hollow, easily dug-through, her eyes stuck riveted to his. "What a shame. You looked so wonderful dancing with Reznik. I would like to dance that way, as well." Their eyes locked, his mind searching through hers by way of his hands, Robin felt like a giant window. She was a giant window being used to look into Trygve and Sigrún's household.

Blinking, she fought to snap her mind closed, to break off the connections that the old man was making somehow. Robin's sight was darkening, the bodies in the room taking on diffused glows. Teodor intensified his stare at her and the room lightened a bit, her head throbbing. He was fighting her entrance to the Otherworld! Trembling slightly, the voices in her head starting, Robin concentrated harder. The room began to darken again, the faint glows around bodies returning.

"Stop it," she whispered to him, harshly. Pushing as hard as she could against whatever he was using to push back, Robin's head began to swim vaguely, the voices chanting. Robin clenched her teeth, her hand unconsciously squeezing against Teodor's.

_If you have any worth at all, you would help me,_ she murmured internally to the chanting voices. She was more than a little startled when they actually seemed to _obey_, her brain starting to feel a little less see-through and jumbled. Green eyes narrowed at Teodor, who looked just as startled as her, his own eyes squinting. A noise of anger or perhaps shock escaped him, and he released her suddenly mid-spin, swinging her out into oblivion just as Reznik had. Still light-headed, vision somewhat blurred and hazy, blinded by dim glows, Robin collided with a figure. Bringing her dazed face up, she found herself staring up at Amon.

"You," she said, sounding weak and tired. His hands gripped her tightly, the dance moving on as if it had never been interrupted at all. She was too dazed and sapped to even register that she was still dancing, really; her feet were on auto-pilot. His Craft, faintly activated, seemed to seep through her skin, the glow within her and in her mind. "Where have you…"

"Observing," he answered shortly. "Robin." He was studying her unfocused gaze, scrutinizing. "What happened between you and that man?"

"A battle," Robin answered, faintly. "Amon, where have you been? You've missed everything—tonight, I figured it all out—"

His gaze hovered between even, very quietly hurt, and oddly knowing and proud. They were still dancing, Robin looking up and over at his conflicted face in confusion. "You can tell me about it on the way back to the hotel."

"But where _were_ you?" He hadn't answered her question; it wasn't as if she was worried that he was off doing something nefarious, something in league with the committee, she simply wanted to know for herself in hopes of assuaging her hurt at his absence.

"You managed to do fine without me," he replied, firmly, enigmatically. "You said it yourself—you figured it all out." Abruptly he stopped leading her and ushered her off the floor hastily, face cool and unreadable. "We've overstayed our welcome. It's time to go."

Halfway to the others, Nagira confronted them from the crowd. He glared at Amon, who stared back, unaffected.

"'Bout damn time," the lawyer snapped, sticking a cigarette in his mouth. "Let's blow this joint."

……………………………………….

**A/N:** Wow. Holy hell, 38 pages. I didn't mean for this to be so long, but it kind of ended up happening anyway. If only I wasn't so damned long-winded, it probably wouldn't have.

OHNOES. The plot thickens. Sadly, next chapter will probably be just as long and rambling, because within it the plot thickens even _more_. Eek.

So, uh, yeah. Good stuff. Betrayals and moments of teenage awkwardness and shaving and dreams about sex and Viennese waltzing! Whee!

Amon, the randomly-abandoning asshole! Nagira, the patience-wearing-thin random human guy! Robin, the spine-growing possibly schizophrenic Eve of Witches! AND OTHERS AS WELL! …uh, in the next chapter. Yes.


	21. Antistar

**A/N: Witness as I bombard you with song lyrics! Sorry. I'm a damn hippie. This chapter has been particularly interesting to write, considering I've been basically homeless—no power at the house due to a massive ice storm that left half of Kansas a certified disaster area. Bouncing around from house to house (anyone who has power or any PLACE that still has power), pirating unprotected wireless networks to get online…yeah. Not to mention the husband being in Dubai, wondering what the hell is happening with me… Heh. I still have time before school starts, and despite the fact that half the city is without power, I'm gonna write, goddamnit! XD**

"_As life gets longer awful feels softer,  
and it feels pretty soft to me  
And if it takes shit to make bliss,  
well, I feel pretty blissfully_

If life's not beautiful without the pain,  
well, I'd just rather never ever even see beauty again  
Well, as life gets longer awful feels softer  
And it feels pretty soft to me"

_--Modest Mouse, "The View"_

"_Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole  
With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,  
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,  
Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you?  
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands…"_

_--Bob Dylan, "Sad-Eyed Lady Of The Lowlands"_

"_Our conversation was short and sweet  
It nearly swept me off-a my feet.  
And I'm back in the rain, oh, oh,  
And you are on dry land.  
You made it there somehow  
You're a big girl now._

Bird on the horizon, sittin' on a fence,  
He's singin' his song for me at his own expense.  
And I'm just like that bird, oh, oh,  
Singin' just for you.  
I hope that you can hear,  
Hear me singin' through these tears.

Time is a jet plane, it moves too fast  
Oh, but what a shame if all we've shared can't last.  
I can change, I swear, oh, oh,  
See what you can do.  
I can make it through,  
You can make it too.

Love is so simple, to quote a phrase,  
You've known it all the time, I'm learnin' it these days.  
Oh, I know where I can find you, oh, oh,  
In somebody's room.  
It's a price I have to pay  
You're a big girl all the way.

A change in the weather is known to be extreme  
But what's the sense of changing horses in midstream?  
I'm going out of my mind, oh, oh,  
With a pain that stops and starts  
Like a corkscrew to my heart  
Ever since we've been apart."

_--Bob Dylan, "You're A Big Girl Now"_

"_And we were done, done, done  
with all the fuck, fuck, fuckin' around   
You were so true to yourself  
You were true to no one else   
Well, I should put you in the ground_

I've got the time, I got the hours,  
I got the days, I got the weeks  
I could say to myself  
I've got the words but I can't speak  
Well, I was done, done, done  
with all the circ, circ, circlin' round

I didn't die and I ain't complainin'  
I ain't blamin' you  
I didn't know that the words you said to me  
meant more to me than they ever could you?  
I didn't lie and I ain't sayin'  
I told the whole truth  
I didn't know that this game we were playin'   
even had a set of rules"

_--Modest Mouse, "Black Cadillacs"_

"_You gotta be crazy, you gotta have a real need  
You gotta sleep on your toes, and when you're on the street,  
You gotta be able to pick out the easy meat with your eyes closed  
And then moving in silently, down wind and out of sight,  
You gotta strike when the moment is right without thinking_

And after a while, you can work on points for style  
Like the club tie, and the firm handshake,  
A certain look in the eye and an easy smile  
You have to be trusted by the people that you lie to,  
So that when they turn their backs on you,  
You'll get the chance to put the knife in

You gotta keep one eye looking over your shoulder  
You know it's going to get harder, and harder, and harder as you  
get older"

_--Pink Floyd, "Dogs"_

…………………………………………….

"What is your _problem_?" Nagira finally snapped irritably, after they'd been driving through Germany for a while. The clock on the BMW's dash showed that it was shortly after one in the morning, and Robin was taciturn in the backseat, laid out across it. Amon's brooding reticence and the events of the dinner party had served to render her mute, pensive, and worn-out. Nagira stared penetratingly at his brother who was illuminated in the glow of the vehicle's instrument panel.

"Nothing," Amon replied, unruffled by Nagira's blatant look. "You are the one snapping."

"You know what I mean." Nagira continued to stare at the side of Amon's face. Amon refused to look over, his eyes riveted to the road. "You've alternated between being pissy and completely silent ever since we left that place…not to mention the two cute disappearing acts you pulled today..."

Amon looked put-out; a reaction, finally. "I'm tired." Silence followed. Apparently that was his explanation.

Making a scoffing noise, Nagira lit a cigarette and rolled down his window a hair, just enough to ash out of. "So that's it, huh? You're the only person I know who seems to completely lose their _mind_ when they're tired."

Silence filled the car's interior for a few long minutes and then Nagira looked over to Amon. "So where did you disappear to tonight, anyway?"

"I was looking around." Amon was unusually terse, his voice sounding as if it was a rubber band that someone kept pulling on, stretching it further than it should have been stretched.

"Looking around?" the lawyer asked incredulously. "Is that the only explanation you have?" He alternated between looking out at the road in front of them in the BMW's xenon headlights and looking over at the driver with wide, inquiring eyes that demanded an answer.

Without warning Amon turned to his brother briefly, remembering to look back at the road with fury in his eyes. "_Look_," he began, skating the thin line between a bellow and a shout only amplified in the small car, "what the hell does it matter? Since when do I have to report my _every movement _to you people? I am _not_ a child, Nagira!"

Nagira's own anger came to the forefront, as if it had been lurking beneath the surface the whole time. "Then quit fucking _acting_ like one, Amon! This is why I stopped talking to you, years ago. This is why I was almost _wary_ of letting you back into my life, regardless of what kind of help you needed—you have a penchant for walking all over people and treating them like shit—"

"You stopped talking to me because you were unable to reconcile with the idea of me killing witches," Amon retorted, cutting his brother off. "And I did _not_ need your help. Christ, what is your complex with making me into your helpless little brother for all eternity?"

Robin sat up, brow furrowed and mouth turned down sharply. Nagira flicked ash out the window forcefully and scowled. "Oh _God_! Have you really convinced yourself that you are just completely invincible and all-capable? You didn't need my help? First you send Robin to my doorstep alone and confused because you didn't think to plan anything out, then you call me from the fucking airport, _bleeding _and half-dead and tell me that you need me to get you a flight to Italy on the sly?" Nagira threw his hands up in the air, chuckling without humour. "What part of this suggests that you didn't need my help?"

"I didn't exactly have much time to plan anything out!" Amon snapped back, voice dripping venom. "Either I did something or they were going to kill her. And speaking of acting like children, I cannot believe that you are even holding this over my head!"

"Or how about leading us around in circles instead of just telling us what the hell was going on?" Nagira went on, regardless of Amon's vitriol about the nature of the argument. "How about sitting back idly while SOLOMON Hunted the holy living hell out of Robin?" Nagira looked at Amon pointedly, the silence sudden and oppressive. "But you never told her about that, did you?" he went on flatly.

Robin's face in the backseat had gone from disapproval at the two brothers fighting to wide-eyed, shattered disbelief. She knew that Amon had Hunted her on several failed attempts, culminating in the night above Nagira's office, but she had not known that he had prior knowledge of the other Hunters SOLOMON had sent after her while in Japan. He was silent and bitter; Robin looked at him, mouth open slightly.

"Is that true?" she asked, quietly. Amon did not reply, even as Nagira looked at him with a drilling, pointed glare. Robin drew a deep, shaky breath. "_Is it_?"

"Yes, damnit, it's true!" Amon nearly exploded, the hand gripping the steering wheel and the hand gripping the stick shift tightening until they shook, knuckles turning white. "HQ was growing impatient at my delay in killing you so they sent other Hunters." Robin was watching him, frozen.

"Why didn't you do something?" Robin asked brokenly.

"Because I wasn't sure at that point if I was going to let them kill you or if I was going to end up doing it," Amon said, voice devoid of emotion. "And now you know, just like you always have to know about _everything_. Are you two happy? Nagira? You happy? Robin? You happy?"

Nagira shook his head and looked out the window, focusing on smoking his cigarette. Robin stared blankly at the center console for a moment and the hand on the stick shift, then sank back into the back seat feeling vaguely ill to her stomach. "No," she whispered in reply. Lying back down she rolled over to face the leather of the back seat, arms folded against her chest, tears rolling from her eyes.

Abject, tomb-like silence filled the car for the remainder of the long trip back to the house outside of Copenhagen.

………………………………..

It seemed like a call to arms, a gathering of troops on a field before a battle. All morning long refusing sleep, Trygve and Sigrún were in Trygve's office to call in their resources, pool their power. Nagira wasn't certain if it was necessarily so wise to gather so many witches in one spot, concentrated, after what they knew about the committee and SOLOMON but Trygve looked resolute.

"This house is unimportant," the Icelandic man said firmly. Nagira had nearly blanched—this was Trygve's home, and he would give it up just like that? "We will leave it if need be, if it becomes dangerous. I don't think either the committee or SOLOMON at their urging would dare to attack us here, however."

"Why?" Nagira queried, sounding skeptical and helpless to stop being so.

"I haven't _room_ for all of the witches that are coming," Trygve replied. "Have you any idea how much power will be amassed in this house, Nagira? Witches, everywhere, witches and their families, witches and their friends, witches sleeping on floors and in chairs. They would be _mad_ to attack us here. Sheer number alone would give us the upper hand. Plus, I believe it would be wiser to convene my friends and fellows here, in my home, rather than have them spread out all over Europe, where they could start to be picked off by SOLOMON."

He was right in a way. A pack of wolves had better chances of survival than a lone wolf when facing a bear. But then Nagira began to think of the saying about fish in a barrel and sighed. "I hope you're right about that."

"I am." Trygve sounded extremely convinced and Nagira couldn't tell if it was because the man truly believed it or if he was simply trying to convince Nagira. The maids were coming into the room, leaving cups of steaming hot coffee behind for the Icelandic couple. Trygve rubbed at his eyes with a hand under his glasses and then took a large swallow of the piping hot drink. Sigrún, crossing names off a list, looked as if she needed to be in bed more than anyone and yet she continued dialing phone numbers. "These people are coming because they know that they are in danger by way of association to me and they know that Robin is in danger."

It was touching, in a weird way. Nagira couldn't imagine whole families packing up without any notice and just footing it up to Denmark, leaving their lives behind to help Robin…but then again, hadn't Trygve and Sigrún put their own lives on hold for the girl? Hadn't Sigrún's sister? …hadn't _Nagira_, himself? He thought then of the families who took the witches that Nagira hustled into hiding on the side; all the people who put their own concerns and safety on hold to take children, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers into their household and tried to give them a normal life.

Maybe Toudou had been right. Maybe witches were the superior race, descended from Gods of long ago—they certainly seemed to be kinder, gentler than the rest of humanity (for the most part, anyway). They seemed to know that they were facing odds against them and bound together tighter than any humans ever would have. Alliances made during wars fell apart shortly thereafter; nations squabbling over spoils, governments pointing fingers at one another—these were typical human occurrences. Human friendship seemed to reach only to the point at which one person would be inconvenienced, leaving the other behind.

Nagira was bumming himself out, as if he hadn't been mildly bummed to begin with. Extracting himself from the workroom, he trudged up the stairs towards his brother's room. Amon hadn't emerged since they'd returned to Denmark early that morning. It was entirely possible he was asleep; but knowing Amon, he probably wasn't.

Nagira swallowed his pride and felt silly (but kind of not really) for the anger he'd harboured the night before, and knocked on the door. Standing there for a while, he raised his hand to knock once more but stopped short when the door opened a crack, revealing a shirtless, rumple-haired Amon. He looked irate and cranky and as if he hadn't really been sleeping very well in the first place, if at all.

"What?" Amon sounded as cranky as he looked. Nagira carefully inserted a hand into the doorway, gripping the door, ensuring that if Amon went to slam it he was at least going to have to slam it onto Nagira's hand, probably breaking bones in the process. Sighing, Amon lifted an arm above his head and leaned against the doorframe.

"Hey buddy, wanna talk for a minute?" Nagira asked. Amon stared at him flatly and then closed his eyes, sighing again. The door opened a bit more, leaving enough room for Nagira to enter. Amon turned on a light and sat himself down on the edge of his bed. Nagira cast a discreet eye towards the door that conjoined Robin's room to Amon's and noticed that the lights appeared to be out in her room.

"She's asleep." Amon had apparently noticed Nagira's glance. "What is it?"

"Look, I guess I just wanted to apologize for what happened last night." Nagira looked mildly confused for a moment and then frowned. "Rather, this morning. Sometimes you just _irritate_ the crap out of me, Amon."

"Likewise." Amon rubbed faintly at his face, staring into space. "This shit of you having to act like my father and my brother all rolled into one is _going_ to stop, though." Head dropping down into his hand, Amon let out a breath through his palms. "I am very tired of everyone around me acting as if I am not allowed to be a separate person. You and Robin have been very good at that as of late."

Nagira arched an eyebrow, running a hand over his hair. He sat down in a chair, leaning back comfortably and folding his hands on his stomach. "You're the one who promised to be her warden, buddy, and as for myself—I wouldn't act like such a papa if you didn't act like you needed someone to run after you and clean up your emotional messes all the time. You're not just acting like a separate person; you're withdrawing completely. That is, when you're not being emotionally needy in your own little tormented way." Catching Amon's flaring look, Nagira lifted his hands and held them up innocently. "I'm not trying to start a fight. I'm just saying. It's the damn _truth_."

"Perhaps," the ex-Hunter began, his look calming, "you just need to learn to keep your nose out of my business."

"Are you sure about that?" Nagira afforded Amon a searching gaze, to which Amon stared back. "Even if you're screwing things up real bad?"

"_Especially_ if I'm screwing things up badly," Amon affirmed. Unspoken words and understanding went between the two figures in the room, and in the semi-darkness imposed upon the room by the drawn curtains and the cloudy sky outside, Nagira couldn't quite make out Amon's face—despite the light—as he stood, stretching. "I can't sleep. Suppose I might as well get up now."

………………………………

Robin awoke at around eleven feeling distinctly groggy and not-very-well-rested at all. Rolling out of her bed with a tiny grunt, she looked around at the gloomy light in the room and lit a few of the oil lamps as she stood. Moving to the window, she poked her face around the curtain and looked out at the day. Gloomy and grey. Fantastic.

Dressing quickly to avoid the chill in the room, she stood there for a moment with her hands on her hips, looking around her. She didn't feel like leaving her room. It was silly and childish, but she dreaded encountering Amon. Deeper inside, she realized that she dreaded encountering _anyone_, at that point in time.

Still dressed, Robin flopped back into her still faintly warm bed, closing her eyes. Maybe she could will herself back to sleep for a while…

……………………………..

"Where _is_ everyone?" Amon asked Nagira as the pair moved down the stairs, headed for the kitchen. "In bed?"

Shrugging, Nagira followed his brother through the dining room into the kitchen. "Tryg and Sigrún might still be awake, contacting every witch on the Continent, but maybe not. They might have gone to bed by now." Nagira tendered another shrug, watching his brother search through the large stainless steel refrigerator. "Haven't seen Finn at all today, and haven't seen Robin either. The maids are here and there with the kid; I imagine the tyke's sleep schedule is pretty screwed up by now."

"Hm." Amon extracted several kiwis from the fridge and looked at them skeptically, then decided to eat them anyway. He set about slicing the skin off them with a pocket knife. "I see."

"Don't you think Robin should be awake by now?" Nagira asked almost leadingly. Amon directed a fierce glance his brother's way and resumed slicing his kiwis.

Slicing in muteness for several moments before he spoke, Amon eventually said: "When she gets up is no concern of mine. If she wants to sleep, she will sleep."

Several moments of deliberate silence preceded Nagira's eventual reply. "Whatever you say, buddy." There could have been a fight in the words, but there wasn't. He watched his brother cutting slices of kiwi against his thumb, eating the slices with a deliberately engrossed air.

The topic of Robin was not up for discussion.

………………………………

Shortly after noon, Robin pulled herself out of her bed once more. She didn't necessarily feel any more rested, but it had been nice to lay about in the bed and sleep to forget she existed. At the time, however, it had become difficult to ignore the fact that she existed due to her stomach growling like a wild animal. Cautiously she made her way out of her room and downstairs, avidly seeking to avoid contact with anyone. Something within her felt cold, unusually detached; she wished to speak to no one and have no one speak to her.

She needed to think. Get her head sorted out. A lack of motivation suddenly plagued Robin in the kitchen and she grabbed a few pieces of bread instead of cooking, eating them as a meal. Sitting there for a while, confident she would not be discovered, Robin decided she needed to get out of the house. She often did when something was bothering her; when she needed to think. After poking her head out of the dining room entrance door and assessing that there was no one about, she hurried upstairs to don her coat as stealthily as she could. Then she skittled back down the stairs to the front door, which she slipped in and out of rather invisibly.

On the front step Robin lost initiative once again and sat down, breathing against her hands to keep them warm—her gloves were mysteriously AWOL. Hands against her mouth as if something horrified her, she sat there and stared out at the surroundings blankly. Life was very complicated. Thinking was becoming increasingly difficult; but she didn't know if that was because she'd just never been very good at strategy or if it was because she'd suddenly and inexplicably lost Amon's support.

There was always Nagira. Despite the fact that Nagira had been her right-hand man for quite some time before, despite the fact that he'd risked his life for her, Robin just didn't feel comfortable telling him some of the things that she wished she could discuss with Amon. Perhaps it was because she still saw Amon as the consummate Hunter. His Craft and his savvy about matters seemed to gain him respect and trust in Robin's mind.

_...even if he did try to kill you. Even if he knew that others were coming to kill you and he did nothing about it. _Robin stopped breathing against her hands and pressed the semi-numb fingers against her eyes. Who could she trust? Why didn't she fully trust anyone but Amon—even if he wasn't really giving her much to trust him on? Furthermore, what bothered her was that she felt as if she _needed_ someone's help to figure things out. Her brain felt musty, clogged by dust. She wasn't making connections between things that probably should have been connected. She just wasn't seeing them, however, the connections; she knew that they were there, _should_ have been there, but they remained as elusive and invisible as drops of milk in water.

Standing up again she walked down the steps, staring at her feet. Maybe a walk would do her well. Her brain was clouded, foggy, odd. It wasn't thinking like it should have—perhaps she needed to get out into some fresh air away from the house. The building seemed to house a large portion of her troubles, so perhaps she should get away from it.

Looking up, the first thing in her line of sight was Amon. Brain muddled, she pressed fingers against her eyes again. "I don't want to talk to you." Her voice sounded cold to her. She could scarcely believe it was her own and that it was being directed at _Amon_. God, her brain was not cooperating. Scenery was odd, even though it wasn't any different than it usually was…it just looked faintly _hazy_.

"Really." It was a typically-Amon reply. He stood there, looking at her evenly. "If you don't want to talk to me, will you at least walk with me?"

She looked at him suddenly, her eyes admitting blatant confusion. "Why? Amon, you've been so _strange_ lately—I don't know what to think of you anymore."

"So walk with me." He was standing there, hands in the pockets of his overcoat, face impassive and stony as usual. Robin, knowing her will was bending for reasons it shouldn't have, sighed and tromped out to him with heavy feet.

"Okay. A walk," she said. Always bending, always caving. When would he ever bend or cave for her? "Will you maybe talk to me about last night?"

…………………………………..

Sigrún and Trygve had obviously slept very little, if at all. They were awake and milling about the ground level of the house, cups of coffee in hands and mumbled, tired voices in their throats. An entirely-too-chipper Eirikur was crawling about the house (distantly monitored by Helle, who seemed to specialize in dealing with the child extensively, since she could not deal with others due to her language impediment), experimentally grabbing onto items, using them to pull himself up. He was almost walking.

Nagira was watching the baby with amusement, watching him pull himself to standing unsurely against tables and chairs; looking around with a fuzzy blonde head and big blue eyes. Several times Eirikur fell flat onto his bottom after trying to release a table surface or a chair and stand on his own, and Nagira had apparently taken personal interest in assisting the baby in attempting to stand on his own.

After about fifteen minutes, Nagira looked like a father one would see in a park in the afternoon—standing a few feet away from Eirikur, beckoning him to try to walk to the lawyer.

"C'mere, kiddo. You can do it," Nagira was saying, and Eirikur, regarding Nagira doubtfully, promptly fell on his diapered bottom. A noise of frustration escaped Nagira's lips.

"You're plenty interested in that child," Amon said, looking up from a copy of the New York Times—printed in English. Where he'd gotten it was a mystery. "You should have some of your own."

"Hell no," Nagira replied, even though he had just crossed the room to assist Eirikur to his feet again, trying to get the child to stand on his own. "Too much trouble. Other people's kids are great. Kids of my own are not so great."

Amon chose not to reply as Nagira resumed his quest for Eirikur's increased mobility.

…………………………………….

"You aren't even going to _try_ to explain to me why you were being so odd last night at the dinner?" Robin asked helplessly, as she and Amon walked along. Words seemed like molasses coming out of her mouth; slow and lugubrious. "What about…about what you knew about my Hunts?"

"Why is any of that important?" Amon asked her, sounding detached. Robin nearly stopped in her tracks—would have stopped, if her mind hadn't have seemed to be on auto-pilot. They were walking along a path that started not too terribly far away from the front step, and led down to a lake that was on Trygve's property—Robin hadn't even known there was a lake on the property. Not that she cared for water, anyway; the sea, lakes, rivers—they all gave her the _creeps_, in layman's terms.

"Why?" Robin asked, her voice spiking quietly. "Because you are acting so _strangely_. Is…something wrong?" She looked at him, squintingly. "…Do you feel alright?"

"I feel fine," Amon replied, looking at her as if she were perhaps acting a bit oddly _herself_. "Do _you_ feel fine?"

Robin wasn't sure about the answer to that.

…………………………………………

"You are being ridiculous," Amon said, finally fed up with hearing his brother's sighs of frustration at Eirikur's inability to stand on his own two feet and walk. "He's just too young, Nagira. The child will not be able to walk on his own for some time."

Nagira was determined. "You're such a pessimist."

"I'm just tired of hearing your grumblings." Amon looked to Nagira and the child, and then at his watch on his wrist—very shortly after one in the afternoon. He looked up briefly, as if looking up to the second story, and then looked back at his brother. "You've been going at training the boy for nearly an hour."

"The kid can walk. I'm convinced of it." Nagira looked convinced, hands under Eirikur's small armpits, holding the child up on his feet. Beatrix, who had just entered the parlour, looked on in red-headed amusement. "He just needs some encouragement."

"You are insane." Amon looked back at his watch and then upstairs. "Isn't Robin awake yet?" he asked of Nagira, in a tone that sounded nearly frustrated. She had no business sleeping that late, no matter how much she liked her sleep. Nagira tendered a half-hearted shrug, and Beatrix looked at Amon as if _he_ was insane.

"You were just with her," Beatrix said, looking at Amon. Amon then looked at the maid as if _she_ was insane. "…you were not? I saw you."

Amon shook his head, slowly, setting the paper down and looking at Beatrix with a raised eyebrow. "I have been in here for a while. I haven't left this room for two hours. Where was Robin?"

Nagira snickered. "Careful! You _might_ be coddling!" Eirikur fell on his bottom again and Nagira released some particularly colourful epithets.

Looking around the room and entering it further, Beatrix looked thoughtful and scrutinizing. "I _swear_ that I saw you and the Eve outside, a few minutes ago. Were you not outdoors?"

Both of Amon's eyebrows were raised then as he shook his head. "No," he said slowly. "I have not been outside all day, much less _seen_ Robin. Perhaps she was with someone else?"

Beatrix appeared to be vaguely insulted and adamant at Amon more or less telling her to get her eyes checked. "_No_…I know that it was you I saw." Her face looked uneasy suddenly, eyes flickering with thought, teeth grinding into a lip in a freckled face. "…but it _was_ you, wasn't it?"

"No, it _wasn't_." Amon was looking back at the maid as if she was _truly_ delusional then, and Nagira had stopped tinkering with Eirikur then to pay attention to the conversation, intrigued. "It must have been someone else." He looked over to his brother, who looked completely in the dark about the whole affair. "Who else? No one else besides Nagira could pass for me and he has not been outside either."

……………………………………….

Robin was becoming fuzzily frustrated, walking out on the pier with Amon. He had managed to evade _all _of her pertinent questions, even more taciturn than usual. He walked slightly behind her, hands in his pockets. That was fairly typical of him, but this almost ridiculous secrecy was not. "You are _never_ this quiet," Robin said, growing some gall despite her mildly confused state, "or this evasive. What is going on?"

They stopped at the end of the small dock and Robin looked out, noticing the absence of a boat at the end of the pier. Apparently Trygve didn't own one or didn't like the open water, just like she didn't. The fog was moving crouched through the forests, lower and denser than it had been before. It was almost obscuring the forest itself, making everything very hazy. Robin's own eyes didn't seem to be working very well; were trees moving around on her? Her Craft _had_ been out of control the other day, perhaps this was another manifestation of that.

"Nothing," Amon replied, simply. "I wanted to walk with you, to here." She looked back at him oddly and then back at the trees on the opposite side of the lake—_had_ they moved? God help her, Robin swore that the scenery was almost changing around her.

"Why?" she asked, squinting at the opposite side of the lake. One of the particularly tall trees seemed ethereal, vaporous. "You know I hate water like this."

…………………………………..

"Maybe I had not seen you with Robin," Beatrix was admitting finally, looking immensely perplexed. "I thought, though…."

Nagira's interest had been sufficiently piqued and he swooped Eirikur up into his arms, not chancing the child crawling about the room and getting into things. "Where was Robin headed, anyway?"

Beatrix thought for a moment and then pointed vaguely through the walls of the house. "It looked perhaps she was heading for the lake." Not understanding the skeptical look Amon was directing at her, she continued. "She was headed toward the path to the pier at the lake and I thought she was with _you_ but perhaps no?"

Silence settled in on the four people (three adults and one baby, technically) for a moment. "Why the hell would Robin walk down to the lake?" Amon asked—he wasn't even aware that there _was_ a lake on the land. "She hates water." The door opened tentatively and Helle poked her head in, presumably in search of Eirikur.

"Well, I saw her." Beatrix was resolute, folding her arms over her chest and turning around to head for the door to the parlour where Helle had partially entered. "Whoever she was with. I saw her."

The wheels in Amon's head turned. Obviously Robin had been with _someone,_ unless the maid was delusional and hadn't seen anyone at all. That would explain her absence all morning long. Nagira was watching him in a measure smugly, watching him sweat over Robin's mysterious disappearance—_so it's okay for you to go wherever the hell you want, but she has to report her movements every second?_ Amon's brain asked him.

Who hadn't been seen that morning? Nagira had in a measure accounted for Tryg and Sig, and Helle and Beatrix were right in the room. Amon himself was obviously there and Nagira was too, and—

"Where's Finn?" Amon asked of Beatrix, as she was retreating.

………………………………

"Do I?" Amon asked Robin, sounding distinctly pleased. Robin scrunched up her eyebrows, eyes squinting, looking out at the water. Without warning, the voices in her head started up in earnest just as the trees in the distance started to look a little clearer, a little less nebulous.

"…You're being very odd," she said, eyes flicking back down to the water. Her tone was tremulously accusatory. "I don't—"

She didn't get to finish her sentence, nor did she get to finish whatever she might have been thinking. Even the voices of the witches in her head went silent as something very cold and very hard came down forcefully on the back of her head.

………………………………..

The red-headed maid merely looked back at him with a blank look on her face, denoting that she had no idea. Amon made a 'hmm' noise and settled back into his chair. Beatrix resumed moving for the door.

It was like someone flipped the primer switch in Amon's brain suddenly. The power surged on and the lights lit up. _The phone calls. The fact that he was upstairs, unguarded when the doctor came. He only arrived after the committee was fairly certain we were here. His words last night—an earth Craft user._

_Earth craft…not too strong with the actual earth end of the Craft, never was…but I've got a fairly awesome grasp on the illusory end of the power, if I do say so myself. _Finn's words from the night before, the meeting with Reznik blazed in Amon's mind.

He was up and out of his seat before he could even register that he was moving, his Craft lurching disturbingly. The room was white-hot bright, Nagira looking at him with concern that he could not see. "Jesus _fucking_ Christ. It's _Finn_!" Nagira was hot on Amon's heels, pulling at his brother's shirtsleeve after having hurriedly passed Eirikur to Helle in the doorway. Beatrix looked after them in abject confusion and moderate fear.

"What?" Nagira asked of the frantic, frenetic Amon, his eyes narrowed.

"It's _Finn_," Amon said in a rush, his words sounding garbled. His eyes were squinted against the brightness of the house, the sweat already starting to form on his face. Acuter-than-normal hearing picked up the sound of footsteps coming from one of the other ground-level rooms; presumably at his raised voice. "The leak is fucking _Finn_. Earth craft. Illusions. Me with Robin—_Jesus, _Robin—" Sigrún and Trygve came out of the door to Trygve's office a split second before Amon went bolting out the front door, still in shirt sleeves, unarmed.

He moved too fast with his Craft for anyone to stop him. Trygve barked something to Sigrún in Icelandic, and she rushed upstairs. Trygve retreated into his office, coming forth with a handgun presently. He pressed it into Nagira's bewildered hand with purpose and urgently said, "Go."

Nagira ran out the door after his brother, albeit much slower.

……………………….

Running faster than he ever thought he could, Amon didn't even bother to take the path. He cut through the forest, following the intense, fishy smell of the lake; it was suddenly searing into his nostrils. Pounding at seventeen times the rate it should have been, Amon's heart felt like a fierce, pissed-off jackhammer in his chest. He narrowly avoided tripping over a fallen tree and laying himself out over tens of feet, at the speed he was moving—

--he'd been wrong. He'd been wrong and Robin was _with_ the enemy.

………………………

Off after Amon, Nagira ran. He couldn't go at the speed his brother had left the house at, but he was trying, smoker's lungs and all. Something had spooked Amon beyond all belief and that was fair enough for Syunji Nagira. His brother often knew what the hell was up in a battle sense even if he couldn't make heads or tails of his own life. Amon was long gone, but Nagira ran down to the small trail that cut through the forest off the gravel driveway, running as hard as he could with a gun in his hand. His dress shoes, flat-bottomed and slick-soled, were not the most ideal things for running in and he almost lost it several times.

A few times he could have sworn he heard footsteps behind him but looked over his shoulder to see nothing. Lungs burning, he pushed on. Christ, how far was the lake? He didn't know how much longer he was going to be able to run for before his lungs gave out—but then he realized that whatever was happening had to do with Robin, and he intensified his efforts to maintain the same speed he'd started at.

Abruptly he skid to a stop in the middle of the path, a figure in his line of sight. Due to the smooth soles of his shoes, the skid was less than graceful and more of an attempt to keep from falling flat on his ass.

Finn.

"Where'd Robin go?" Nagira asked bluntly, sounding predatory. He didn't know if he meant to sound that predatory but something was happening and damnit, this dude had something to do with Robin and wherever she had gone and whatever Amon was losing his mind about.

Finn laughed.

"She went to go check out the lake, man," Finn replied, sauntering up the path with his hands in his pockets. "It's very pretty, you know."

Nagira was skeptical and brought up the gun, to which Finn did not react. That was a definite warning sign. "Amon said that Robin hated water."

"Really? Oops." Finn shrugged. "No wonder she was so confused." He looked at Nagira suddenly and forcefully, their eyes connecting even as Nagira gazed down the barrel of the handgun at Finn.

Scenery began to get fuzzy. Nagira managed an internal _oh shit. _He remembered Amon's hurried words to him before he'd bolted from the house—_earth Craft_. The power of illusion. Nagira, trying as hard as he could, fought to do whatever one could to lock down their brain—whatever that was; he wasn't a witch. He didn't know about this shit.

"What's up with the gun, man?" Finn asked while advancing on Nagira. His white-toothed, sun-tanned, freckled-face grin was evilly menacing somehow. Nagira felt the invisible walls around him warping and distorting. The sounds of what sounded like a person behind him continued but he couldn't be sure. He was too busy trying to keep his mind from losing its grip on reality, from becoming subject to the power that Finn was attempting to exert over him. His brain felt as if it was encased in saran wrap and someone was poking in from the outside, trying to tear a hole to get in.

"Fuck you," Nagira said, narrowing his eyes. It was becoming difficult to _perceive_ Finn; the forest around him seemed to be moving. Nagira was on the losing end of the battle. "Why don't you fight like a man and drop this stupid illusion shit?" Nagira threatened.

Finn laughed. "Why would I fight like a man when I can fight like a _witch_?"

Snarling, Nagira used some of his not-clouded senses to pull the trigger, firing a bullet straight towards Finn. Rather, where Finn had been. Nagira blinked confusedly, his face falling abruptly. He had become so sucked into the illusion that he'd fired at what he had thought was Finn, but actually just a figment of his imagination.

So where was the real Finn? Nagira whirled quickly, his face harshly concentrated. He was _fucked_.

"So one of the Eve's wardens is a human being who can't even defend himself against a witch?" Finn's voice came suddenly. Nagira jerked around to the right, gun up for what little good it would do him. Finn was laughing again. "What the hell is the point? And for Christ's sake, not even the stupid _Eve_ could defend herself against me."

Nagira's hands went clammy, his face intensifying with rage. "What the hell did you do to her?" Finn—or Finn's shadow, whichever it was—didn't reply immediately. Finger tightening on the trigger helplessly, Nagira fairly shook with rage. "You fucking American bastard. What did you do to her?"

"Helped her into the water," Finn answered with a grin. "She went for a swim."

Firing the gun again, Nagira wasn't entirely shocked when the bullet went harmlessly through Finn's image, which rapidly dissipated. The bullet sailed into a tree with a loud crack and plenty of splintering wood. Once again unable to see Finn anywhere, Nagira whirled around warily, scanning his semi-blurry surroundings for an image of the lanky witch. The longer he helplessly battled with this man, the greater his chances of death became. And for all Nagira knew, Robin was at the bottom of the lake, her small lungs filled with water.

"I was just going to kill you outright since I kind of liked you," Finn's voice spoke, and Nagira turned behind him to see Finn standing there once more, hands jammed into the pockets of his rough-washed jeans. "But I've changed my mind—man, playing with you is just too much fun."

"Before you kill me, then, if you can," Nagira spat, sounding a lot more confident than he felt, "why don't you answer some questions so you can send me to my ancestors feeling a bit more enlightened?" No reply was forthcoming from Finn so Nagira continued. "How long have you been in tight with the committee?"

"For a _long_ time," Finn answered smugly. "Since before I married Sula—that's Tryg's sister. The opportunity was just too good to pass up. Her marriage granted me access to the inner sanctums of most of the underground covens in Europe. Simple enough. Even after she divorced me I still had mobility among the witches in Europe."

"Why the hell are you doing this?" Nagira asked, circling cautiously. Finn's steps followed his own, the two at opposite ends of a circle that spun around and around with their steps.

"Why shouldn't I?" Finn asked with a shrug. "No one takes me halfway serious anyway since I'm an _American_, and the guys have been pretty good to me so far. Guaranteed way to keep anyone, everyone, and SOLOMON off your back. Plus, I mean…" Here he laughed and it made Nagira want to rip his face off, "haven't you ever just wanted to get rid of all of the _stupid_ people in the world? Honestly. I've been given a means to get rid of people who really, really piss me off without any kind of punishment."

Nagira was fairly twitching with anger and nervousness. "You people _are_ like Nazis."

"Eh, not really." Finn shrugged yet again, apparently unconcerned; as if this was all a big game, as if he hadn't probably just killed Robin and dumped her body into the lake or drown her in it. "We don't have any retarded-looking uniforms to wear. This has been really cool and all, but I'm kind of starting to get annoyed now. So, sorry, Syunji Nagira." Finn was reaching into his coat, presumably for a gun. "Out of the people I've killed I think I liked you the best. It just sucks that you aren't the witch between you and your fuckface of a brother. Maybe I could have turned you to our—"

Blinking, Nagira watched as the surroundings about him started to grow less fuzzy and muted, less confusing; Finn was suddenly struggling against something as if he couldn't breathe, his face contorting with the effort of the struggle. He was scuffling with something over his back, something not there. Even though Nagira could see some kind of movement in the dirt behind the tanned man, there was nothing visible there. Finn's eyes grew wide suddenly, a choked noise escaping him—

--and suddenly, eyes still wide and startled, his throat slit wide open, Finn stumbled forward all the while grasping helplessly at his mysteriously slashed throat. Nagira could see perfectly fine then and watched the situation unfolding before him in complete confusion. Blood ran everywhere from Finn's throat in gushes before the gurgling man fell forward onto the ground, twitching, obviously choking on his own blood. Nagira looked around with a look of blatant bewilderment and blinked rapidly when Trygve suddenly materialized out of nowhere, a large knife clutched in his slightly bloody hand. He looked furious, staring down at the twitching body of his ex-brother-in-law. Abruptly he spit on the body, face screwed up into pure malice.

"_Éttu skít og þegiðu! _(Eat shit and shut up!)" Trygve stared down at the body for a moment more and then gestured to Nagira urgently, towards the other end of the path. "We haven't much time—I can only pray to the Gods that Robin—"

What sounded very much like Amon's anguished roar was heard echoing from far down the path. Nagira and Trygve both began to run without another word, leaving Finn's dead body behind as if it had been there all along, a disturbing yet natural feature of the forest.

……………………………….

He didn't think he'd ever run so fast or so hard in his life, even during all the times they'd been Hunted. His Craft was intensifying with every step he took, his speed increasing, his senses expanding to the point where his head felt as if it would explode. His heart, similarly, pounded in his chest harder than it ever had; hard enough to _hurt_. He was drenched in sweat by the time he finally moved through the forest like some kind of wolf after prey. The end of the path was before him, and the pier leading outward.

Amon didn't even stop running, just headed for the end of the pier. He saw no one. There was no one there as he approached the end. Perhaps that was the most frightening thing of all, instead of being a relief.

Feet pounded on the old wood as he slowed himself down to avoid running off the end of the pier. It hadn't really mattered anyway because he ended up in the water less than two seconds later, but not before a noise that defied explanation tore its way out of his throat.

Robin was floating in the water, arms and legs bent slightly downward like dying flower stalks, tendrils of faded dishwater blonde hair floating about her head uselessly. She was face down and the back of her head was bloody. _Oh jesus fuck she's dead. _His body nearly froze in the water, having been overheated from the run and the Craft, his muscles screaming in immediate protest as the icy water enveloped him. He forced himself to keep moving and grabbed Robin's limp, waterlogged form, swim-dragging her through the water up to the rocky edge of the water. Pulling himself out of the water doggedly, he pulled Robin behind him and laid her out on the sandy-rockiness of the land, flipping her over and looking at her, dropping to his knees.

She was then covered in sand, body soaked through, eyes closed and skin whiter than white; her lips were blue and she wasn't breathing. Amon was shaking, but it had more to do with utter panic than it did with the freezing cold of his wet clothing clinging to him; he couldn't even feel that. Immediately he pressed shaking, numb fingers to Robin's throat and found no pulse. His stomach crawled with a disgusting slimy feeling as if he would be sick.

_Oh my fucking god she's dead. Robin's dead you fucking ass and it is your fault you bastard how good do you feel now? _His hands began to press down forcefully into her tiny chest repeatedly, driving against her ribcage in an attempt to begin CPR. _She doesn't even have a heartbeat you fuck what's this going to do? _His breathing sounded animal and feral in the back of his mind and his eyes were burning.

He was crying.

"Fuck, _Robin_," he bellowed, leaning down to cover her stiff, unmoving mouth with his own, blowing air into her as hard as he possibly could. He resumed pumping his palms against her ribcage, staring down at her. "Wake up. Wake _up._" He blew into her mouth again, no response. Amon was becoming a demented sort of angry.

"_Wake up!_" he screamed into her cold, still face, as loud as he possibly could before grabbing her face and blowing into her mouth again. Still no response. "_Fuck you_, Robin! Are you really just going to _die_?" he screamed, his hands driving against her chest in motions that were beginning to seem very futile. He was still crying. "So that's it, is it?" he asked, forcing air into her lungs once more by way of her mouth. Nothing. "We mean so little to you that you would just _die_? God damnit!" _Blame it on her like you always do like it was her fault that she drowned you stupid bastard this is YOUR fault and you know it!_

Nagira and Trygve were there at his side suddenly and both similarly horrified; not that Amon had seen their faces, his own face was locked on Robin's, his hands and arms refusing to stop moving. Nagira grabbed onto him all of a sudden to which Amon screamed something that wasn't even words and went right back to Robin's side, hands resuming their frantic pumping at Robin's lungs. "I will break your ribs if I have to," he yelled at Robin, blowing into her mouth. "_Breathe._" He could break her ribs and then attempt to make her heart resume pumping physically, massaging it through her broken ribcage—he remember that, years ago, from his training in Europe--

Trygve was still, face fallen and sad, arms limp at his sides. "Amon…" he was quiet, experiencing his own sorrow, but knowing that he had to do something. He reached for the frantic man and was rebuffed violently as Amon shoved at his arms angrily.

"_Get away_ from me," Amon snarled. His voice was feral, trembling with rage and despair. "I can do this!" Grey eyes were wide and teary, shining neurotically like those of an animal's in a cage.

Watching his brother, Nagira was wiping his own beginnings of tears away from his eyes and reattempting to reach for the determined man. It had been going on two or three minutes by then that Amon had been attempting to put life back into Robin's body, and neither knew how long he'd been at it before they'd arrived. Being shoved away much as Trygve had been, Nagira finally forcefully grabbed his brother and dragged him away, even as Amon screamed and kicked and attempted to maim him like a small child throwing a tantrum against their mother's leg. A good distance away, Amon stopped struggling abruptly and Nagira found himself with a dead weight in his arms.

"Robin's not here anymore," the older brother said lowly, and Amon was unresponsive in his arms, the freezing water in his clothing soaking into Nagira's. Trygve looked on in despair and then knelt near Robin, his hands on the girl's cold cheeks. Amon was still shaking in his brother's restraining bear-hug, the lawyer's arms wrapped around his brother's torso from behind.

"Oh, God." Amon's voice was hollow, shocked, quiet. "No." His body was no longer willing to hold him up and he fell downwards on useless jelly legs, causing Nagira to curse and drag him further away, turning him away from the sight of Robin's drowned body. Nagira was crying then too; tears leaking out of his eyes despite his best efforts to be strong for his baby brother. The kid was dead.

"Amon. Amon." Nagira shook his brother with increasing ferocity as Amon continued to sit on the ground, half-slumped and staring into nothing. "Hey. Talk to me. Say something. C'mon, buddy." Nagira grabbed his brother into a hug so tight that it might have been painful, but Amon did not move and did not speak—Nagira had not held his brother like this in years upon years, not since they were children—Amon's personality would not allow it. Robin was lying dead behind them, and Nagira needed to hold Amon as much as he ever had. He could think of nothing to say that would even begin to address the grief, the fragmenting of Amon's mind and soul that was probably beginning to set in.

Their little witch-kid was dead. This was something that would only happen in nightmares, never in real life; how could her life have slipped between their hands, he and Amon's hands? Trygve was muttering in Icelandic over Robin's body; more than likely some sort of prayers or last words to the poor girl. She was dead. She'd relied on them to get her through all the bad times, all the danger, and they'd failed her. They'd looked the enemy straight on in the face, shared cigarettes with him, eaten at the same table as him; they'd let him get that close to Robin and neither one of them had even seen it coming.

_Fuck_. Nagira was going to fall to pieces as his brother was if he couldn't stop his train of thought.

Amon was still catatonic, his breath coming in harsh rasps, the tears coming out of his wide eyes in rivers. The girl he loved—the girl he'd sworn to protect—the girl he'd been treating like shit—that girl was dead. Nagira couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his baby brother cry. It had been years ago, that was for certain. Over Amon's shoulder, Trygve was making odd hand gestures over Robin, taking her arms and folding them over her body, his hand lingering on her closed eyelids. It was almost as if he was performing some sort of burial ceremony, getting ready to stick a crook and a flail into Robin's ice-white hands.

Looking back to Amon, Nagira tried to get the ex-Hunter to look him in the eyes. "Amon. Please. She would _not_ want you to do this. We're no good to her crying, no good to her shell-shocked."

"We're no fucking good to her anyway!" Amon roared suddenly into Nagira's face, startling the older man. "I let her _die_!" His voice broke on the last word.

"No." Nagira's heart clenched with fear; his brother was resolute and determined in his guilt. What frightened him was that he felt mostly the same way, but he knew that the guilt rested upon his brother's soul differently than it did upon his own. "You didn't. Amon, listen to me. You did _not_ let her—"

……………………………..

Buenos Aires, Argentina.

An old man—an old witch—lay in his bed, surrounded by his family members. Slowly, slowly, over the last weeks he had been succumbing to the cancer ravaging his body; he did not want to die in a hospital, surrounded by the cold perfection of light and metal; did not want to die surrounded by science and technology, devoid of love and everything from the earth, all things organic.

His breath was rattling in his lungs as his eldest son gently laid a wet cloth on his wrinkled brow. There were voices in his mind. Perhaps they were the voices of angels, or devils, or his forefathers past. He knew not.

They were sad, frightened voices, and one was at the forefront of his mind. It was the voice of a girl, young and small and convulsive with fear. It repeated a similar mantra over and over again in his head with the force of a tribal drum, the power and the sorrow of the words echoing in his very soul. Her voice was sheer light, sheer power in his mind; in his dying minutes, the power that radiated from her voice awed him.

The presence was familiar. Surely it was another witch. It must have been—the way her presence felt in his mind, the way her soul seemed to bump up against his—it was a witch, a young witch, a powerful witch. She was scared and alone, cold and growing quiet.

_Please, please, God, I don't want to die now—I want to see You but I don't want to die—I have so much left to do, everyone is counting on me, I'm their hope—I can't die now, oh please I'm so cold and I can't breathe and oh, Lord, I'm so scared PLEASE I don't want to die please please just let me wake up. Let this be a horrible dream. _

The old man felt directly connected to this girl, her mind in his, her soul against his own. He'd lived as long as he'd liked. He was there, surrounded by the warm caring of his family and this child was all alone, cold and in darkness. Her voice was too young and too filled with power to live and change life.

_Go back, dear girl_. His mind spoke into her own, the darkness, and he felt a breathtaking sort of transference; his life for hers, the very energy leaving his body as it moved from his into hers.

The old witch took his last breath. His family saw it, grieved; but knew he had gone as peacefully as he could.

Robin Sena was being sucked backwards through the darkness, the force of her new, donated life flying like an arrow towards its target.

…………………………….

Trygve made a startled noise behind the brothers, suddenly leaned over the body, hands gripping the shoulders. A noise was emerging from Robin—it didn't really matter what the noise was at that point, only that she was _making noise_. Her body shook against the ground, chest constricting harshly. The noise was evolving into what sounded like gurgle-coughing, and without warning a large volume of water came up and out of her mouth, all over herself and all over the ground. Her body suddenly rolled over onto its side, water continuing to come up out of her lungs, her body convulsing with the effort to draw air in against the water coming out. Amon was scurrying towards her before Nagira had registered that he was moving, the second time that had happened that day.

Robin lay on her side, coughing and wheezing, making a faint moaning noise. Trygve sat her up suddenly with arm around her, assessing her breathing. Body shivering as if motor-powered, Robin's pale, blue-lipped body came back into life, her eyes darting around in fright. She felt the back of her head suddenly, the wet blood there, and looked up at Trygve with abject fear written all over her face. "Robin! _Eve_! You're alive!" Trygve exclaimed, looking down on her. She merely looked back up at him in bewilderment as Amon arrived at her other side. He grabbed her arm and she jerked her head over to look at him. Before words could come out of his mouth, a pure banshee shriek came out of Robin's and she vaulted backwards against Trygve's grip, out of Amon's, apparently trying to _escape_. She watched him with horribly huge green eyes shining with animal fear.

There was no disguising the utter _pain_ in Amon's voice. "Robin? What are you doing?" He was moving towards her on hands and knees, desperately, only to have her push herself backwards on her hands, feet kicking at the ground clumsily, tangling in a mess of wet skirts and numb limbs.

"You tried to kill me!" she shrieked, hysterical. "You tried to _kill me_!" Her voice spiraled up into animal fear, accusatory and frightened.

Nagira was moving then towards Robin, snatching her up and distracting her before she could collect her scattered wits enough to either crush Amon's head or burn him alive. Amon had stopped dead in his tracks, his face somehow fallen and crushed. She struggled against him for a moment, her body shaking. Nagira realized how devastating this was for Amon, but they didn't have time to discuss the finer points. Robin was soaked and freezing, and her skin was still clammy and cold. No colour was returning to her cheeks. Her head was bleeding and she was hysterical. If they didn't get her inside, chances were good that she would die _again_. "Back to the house," Nagira said, jerking his head and holding Robin tight against him. "She's going to die from exposure. Back to the house."

Trygve and Nagira began to move with Robin, and Amon stood and followed after them looking shell-shocked, gaze wandering. Between point A and point B Robin lost consciousness; still alive, but unconscious.

"She doesn't know," Trygve offered to Amon as they hurried along, approaching Finn's body. Amon looked down at it with helpless rage. "She doesn't know that it was _him_ and not you." His words appeared to offer no solace for Amon. "We will sort it out."

…………………………….

Robin slept. She slept the sleep of the dead, waking only for moments at a time. She slipped in and out of conscious effortlessly as if it was fun. At times when she awoke there was someone waiting with warm broth for her to drink, other times water. Sometimes she awoke to find very few familiar faces, most of them unknown. She awoke to people singing over her, she awoke to people holding her hands, she awoke sometimes to an empty room. It was not the room she was used to, not the room with candlelight and the vague chill of a room without electricity.

She was never awake for very long. She was bouncing in and out of dreams, in and out of the waking world and the otherworld.

Dreams made no sense, conversations she had in the otherworld were perfectly lucid but easily and immediately forgotten. She was asleep, detached from the world, yet nevertheless completely involved. She spoke through dreams, through witches. She dreamt that she had her hands twisted into marionette strings and she moved people. She dreamt of a million different situations as if she was seeing through another person's eyes; a million different places, different people, feeling like a passenger in someone else's body. Robin made breakfast in a kitchen in Nebraska, harvested rice in a paddy in mid-China, dusted a house in Mexico, played ball with children in Morocco.

She lived through other people, through the otherworld. These experiences and bodies were not her own; she was within another, along for the ride.

She dreamed of many things aside from the things she actually did; from the sun she could feel beating down upon her host's face, the dirt she could feel under her host's feet. Dreams of her childhood, of what her mother must have been like; dreams of her life in Japan, of her life in the convent; dreams of people she didn't know but felt, somehow, that she should have.

She dreamed repeatedly of a beautiful woman who seemed familiar to her somehow yet was not at the same time. The woman laughed, hands on her pregnant belly, her skin warm-brown and her eyes bewitching yet not-all-there. The minor structures of her face were familiar; the grey eyes, the cheekbones, the arch of the eyebrows.

"Oh, go away," the woman would laugh, her voice in another language that Robin somehow managed to understand through boundaries. "You're _not_ dead. I only talk to the dead because they talk to me—you're _so_ not dead. Get out of here."

And so Robin left. She wandered, through the otherworld and her dreamscapes, and felt curiously lost yet curiously liberated and empowered at the same time.

…………………………………..

Witches were starting to fill the house. They were all enraged at the news of Robin's near-death, her comatose state. Trygve himself, bristling with rage at the betrayal of one whom he had always considered close, personally took Finn's body out for burial. Questions were not asked about Trygve and Sigrún' perhaps gruesome method of burial. Finn's body was cut into four pieces, buried in four spots between the cardinal directions, and was not buried with any words nor any belongings, not even markers to designate where the parts of his body rested.

"He will wander the earth forever, looking for his rest," Sigrún had informed Nagira. "He will wander the earth forever, looking for the parts of his body. He will live in eternal silence, doomed to remain." She looked resolute. "It is too good for him."

Nagira, despite his faint awe at how vicious Icelandic burial rituals could be, agreed that perhaps Finn deserved such a thing. Trygve's sister Sula was called to Denmark, presumably because of the danger she could be in. Amon had refused at first to allow the woman into the house—after all, she had been connected with Finn and Finn had tried to kill them, had been reporting their movements all along. Trygve was adamant, and Sula arrived—a tall, thin, quiet woman; dark-haired and blue-eyed. She seemed distant and sad, torn between mourning the loss of her ex-husband and mourning the loss of her ex-husband's honour. She spoke little and was seen even less after visiting Robin's room once to whisper a tearful, heavily accented _sorry_ over her slumbering body.

Witches moved in and out of Robin's room under watchful eyes, sometimes chanting, sometimes praying, sometimes merely holding Robin's hands. Perhaps they were trying to transfer power to the girl and perhaps they were seeking to find some of the power that Robin possessed.

No word had come from the committee, or SOLOMON. The night after Robin had nearly been killed Finn's cell phone rang in his room, and Amon, still partially fragmented and off-kilter had answered.

Without even waiting for a reply, Amon spoke first. "He's dead. You are _next_." Then he'd hung up the phone. It hadn't rung since. Nagira, utilizing Amon's laptop and calling in some favours from Japan had started to try to trace some of the numbers on the phone.

Robin had been placed in Amon's room at his behest; her room had no electricity and was rather cold. The ex-Hunter had been sleeping in Robin's room when he hadn't been lying on his-bed-turned-Robin's, watching her, waiting for her to wake up for longer than two minutes. In one of her brief bouts of consciousness, Trygve had hurriedly explained to her the situation with Finn. Robin did not reply, only went back to sleep. No one was certain if she knew what had happened or if she'd not soaked up any of the information that Trygve had shared with her.

Ideas were tossed around in the house, witches conferring with witches, information being shared—this was it. The spark that ignited the fuse had come and gone, and now it was time for action. Nagira took his brother's place in the planning, keeping Amon up-to-date on what happened in the house amongst the witches who angrily planned, schemed, plotted. They wanted SOLOMON gone, but first and foremost they wanted the committee gone. There was too much fear, too much blackmail and too many crimes against all of them from the committee for them to ignore. The committee was also a much smaller target than SOLOMON, a much more practical first strike.

It was also rather obvious that the committee had been the ones to order their agent—Finn—to act out against Robin in light of her refusal to accept their deal offered to her on the night of the auction and dinner.

The number of people arriving at the house grew. First twenty, then thirty, now closely approaching forty—the very young and elderly were granted access to the few spare rooms first, sleeping two and three to a bed; others slept on couches, on the floor, in chairs, wherever they could. Trygve had stood at the foot of the stairs, all current occupants of the house gathered around him.

"If there are any among you who are sympathetic to the committee, to SOLOMON, you will leave now. If you leave now you will be allowed to leave with your life." His face and his voice were hard. Amon, looking sleep-lacking and gaunt, sat on a step behind him.

"Will they?" he asked, darkly. No one left. Amon rose and turned to head up the stairs silently, moving down the second floor hallway towards the room where Robin resided in her own world.

"You will be discovered," Trygve said. "I hate to question you all like this, but it must be done. To go against us would be foolish. We _will_ find you, if you are not with us, if you attempt to betray us."

"Ask the spirit of the man who used to occupy the room upstairs, three doors down on the right," Sigrún added, bluntly. "Ask him. He will tell you."

Robin, sleeping upstairs, remained oblivious to the comings and goings in the household, sleeping through all the planning and the plotting, all the ideas of vengeance and exhilaration at a chance to strike.

……………………………..

She was stirring slightly, her mouth falling open with something that was half exhalation and half breathed words. Amon's throat constricted fiercely at the thought that she may have been awaking while he was there. She hadn't seen him since the day of her "death", when she'd more or less lost it at the very sight of him. Nagira and the others had thought it prudent to keep Amon out of Robin's room until there was a chance to explain the Finn situation to her. No one wanted her to awaken and start frantically trying to escape from him—or kill him—still thinking that he had been the one who had attempted to murder her.

No one was really quite certain if the news had sunk into Robin's brain, but Amon was willing to risk it. He lay on his side on what used to be his bed, watching her sleep. He did it often. He was waiting for her to wake up.

Robin shifted more, her body shimmying under the covers, her eyes moving slightly, squeezing closed more tightly. More incomprehensible breath-words escaped her mouth. Her hair was slightly greased, unwashed; her face pale and thin in appearance. She'd only had broth here and there to eat, never being awake long enough to eat anything else.

Amon watched, holding his breath. "Robin?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. He felt like a stupid teenager, a goofy adolescent. "Can you hear me?"

Sure, he'd talked to her over the last few days. Not that she'd heard him.

Brow furrowed, Robin squirmed about a bit more before her eyes opened without warning, squinting at her surroundings. The eyes alit upon Amon and her body tensed; and Amon's first reaction was to grab her and hold her, prevent her from moving or running away from him. He stared back at her, transfixed.

"It wasn't me." The first words out of his mouth. They were quick, hurried. For a split second Amon thought she was going to either run or incinerate him.

She sighed, looking tired, body relaxing. Her head sank back down into the pillow gently. "They told me." Her face continued to grow sleepy. "It was Finn."

Light panic began to settle upon Amon. "Don't go back to sleep. Stay awake." Her eyes blinked at him, drowsily. "Robin. You've been sleeping on and off for four days. Stay awake, please." He wanted her to keep looking at him. He wanted her to look like she was alive.

"Did they kill him?" Robin asked, sounding faintly more awake. Amon nodded, looking at her. She swallowed, a loud affair, her throat sounding as if it hadn't been used in years. "I'm kind of hungry."

Amon was half off the bed, moving with purpose. "Hungry? Do you want me to go get you something to eat?" He caught her shaking her head quickly out of the corner of his eye and froze, looking back at her fully. She gazed at him with sad, dull green eyes.

"Come back," she murmured. "What happened?"

He moved to lie back down on his side facing her, thinking of words. He laid down a bit closer than he had been before, his face even with hers. She looked like hell. He looked like hell too. Perhaps it was better that way. "With Finn?"

She shook her head again, limp blonde locks moving about. "With you." Robin looked at him straight in the face. "You were pulling away from me, before."

Amon swallowed; he figured that she would have wondered as much. In light of everything, she deserved an explanation. Her heart thudded in her neck in front of him, her side rose and fell with her breath—she was _alive_. "I thought I was being responsible," he began, honestly. "I thought it was the responsible, right thing to do to stop helping you along so much and let you do it yourself."

Robin watched him quietly, her face peaceful and benign, open and listening.

"I figured I was crippling you by getting so close, by doing everything for you. I pushed myself away, forced myself not to care." He sighed. "It was stupidity. In trying to distance myself I completely neglected my post. I let my fervor for pushing you away blind me to signs, to dangers."

Robin blinked, her face still regarding him evenly. "Why were you pushing yourself away from me?" she asked, her voice sounding hurt despite the quiet neutrality of her face. "I thought you were abandoning me."

He could just say it. He could just say it then and there and bring this whole mess of misunderstanding and hurt to an end. He could speak the words he knew she wanted to hear, the words she'd been waiting for patiently, hoping against hope that some day they would come. A part of him wanted to hear the words too, wanted to take her in his arms and feel forgiven, even if he didn't deserve to feel forgiven. "You and I are each other's greatest weakness," he said instead, feeling cowardly and incapable for coming so close and still not being able to say it. For Christ's sake, the girl had been _dead_ and on this second chance, he still couldn't find the courage in himself to tell her that he loved her? "The closer to one another we become, the more dangerous it becomes."

Robin nodded. "I understand. …is that why?"

Amon couldn't lie to her, either. It wasn't right. "Partially." He _looked_ at her and she said nothing, to which he was thankful. He wasn't sure if she didn't challenge him out of understanding or misunderstanding, but he was thankful. "…You know why Finn chose my form, don't you?" he asked of her, watching her face soften a little, her eyes looking down to the space between them. "It is because we are each other's greatest weakness. He knew this. People who look closely will know this. We have to be careful."

Robin looked back up at him, her eyes threatening to overflow with emotion. Her face remained the same but her eyes seemed supercharged with raw feeling. "Does this mean you will continue to push me away?" she asked, voice sounding as if she expected that he would.

This was difficult. He hadn't thought it would be this difficult. "No." Her eyes remained the same, thus far unconvinced. His hand reached out on impulse, smoothing down over the side of her head as if he was petting her, the soft feel of her loose locks of hair sliding over his skin. "No, Robin. It does not. It only means…" Amon paused, his hand mirroring his silence by pausing on the side of her head. "…I don't know. I don't know what it means."

A temporary pause passed between them. "I'm sorry I thought you were the one who tried to kill me," Robin whispered, gazing at him guiltily. She bit at her lower lip a bit, casting her eyes once more to the space between them. "It…it must have hurt your feelings to hear me accuse you of trying to kill me."

The irony of her statement was not lost on Amon. "I suppose it's only natural." His face became a trifle bitter, saddened. "I've tried it before." His voice grew quiet, then. "But you never died before." It grew quieter still. "You were never actually _dead_."

Robin looked at him then, her eyes big and still full of emotion, her face saddening some itself. She scooted herself over, under the covers, towards Amon. He lifted his hand from the side of her head and left his arm up until she reached him; an unspoken invitation. His arm came back down and wrapped around her blanketed body, holding her to him in silence.

"That was a long time ago," she said into his chest. "That…was in a different life. I know that you wouldn't do such a thing now, unless you had to. Unless I became a danger to—"

Amon shook his head slightly, staring at the wall over the top of Robin's head. "No. Robin, I don't think I'd even be able to kill you then." He could feel her look up at him with a question on her face, semi-startled by his revelation. "I would sit back in horror and watch but I could not kill you." He exhaled. "I am incapable of doing it." The arm draped over her side to hold her against him brought a hand to her hair once more, fingers tangling in the locks. "I suppose it took almost losing you for that fact to really solidify. I thought you were dead when I pulled you out of that water." The recollection of her cold skin beneath his, her blue lips, the sight of her waterlogged form drifting in the lake like some kind of bastardized Ophelia all clutched at his mind and his heart and gave him pause. "It terrified me."

She was squirming then, uncomfortable and unsettled. "I _was_ dead." Amon did not speak and words kept coming to Robin. "I don't remember falling into the water…he hit me on the head with something."

"It was a gun," Amon filled in. "Trygve found it on him when he moved the body. …in retrospect," Amon said, grimly, "I'm glad he decided to be dramatic about trying to kill you and didn't just shoot you in the back of the head."

"…but I remember being dead, after a while." Robin's whole body seemed tense, poised like a nervous cat's. "And that terrified _me_ because there was nothing there. It was cold and dark, and all I remember was the lights going away from me. The lights I see in the otherworld, the witches…it was as if I was falling away from all the stars of the universe, all the lights getting further and further away. There was no God, there was no Hell. Perhaps it was…Purgatory. I don't know. I was dead and there was nothing there."

The sounds of someone walking past in the hallway with heavy footfalls would have, in the past, made Amon withdraw from Robin, made Robin turn bright red and find some way to escape. Neither of them moved. "How did you return?" Amon asked, suddenly feeling kind of vaguely embarrassed—could she have heard him in his post-mortem anger, his subsequent mini-breakdown?

One of Robin's hands was fidgeting very gently with one of the buttons on the front of his shirt. "I'm not quite certain…but I think I may have somehow _exchanged _lives with another witch."

In the past, Amon would have worried about whether or not Robin had _sucked_ that life out of someone else in order to continue her own, but he found now that he rather didn't care. Better some poor bastard that they didn't know than Robin. Maybe he was an insensitive, selfish bastard; somewhere, some witch's family was grieving, children were parent-less, a spouse was alone.

He didn't care. "It could be possible, I suppose." Conversation died. For a while they just laid there together. Amon actually felt his breathing beginning to slow, his mind growing vapid with the beginnings of sleep but forced his eyes open. If he was falling asleep Robin might have already _been_ asleep. "Are you still awake?"

"Mm-hmm." She didn't sound very awake. "…you know, I think I saw your mother in a dream." Amon looked down at Robin to find her scrutinizing him closely, sleepily. "She told me she would not talk to me because I wasn't dead."

Amon simply looked at her.

"She had your eyes," Robin went on. "Parts of her face kind of looked like yours, as well."

"Is that so?" Amon found that he believed her. It wouldn't shock him if his crazy dead mother was still lurking around somewhere in some plane of existence, occasionally scaring the daylights out of people.

"She was very pretty." Robin looked at him closer. "It _must_ have been her. She looked so much like you."

A small smile spread across Amon's face and he refused to stop it. "You know, it's kind of insulting to call a man pretty, even in a roundabout way."

Despite the fact that she was still wasted and worn from her brush with death, the fact that this was the longest she'd been awake in days, Robin managed to latch onto her point and run with it. She did not seem to be swayed by his smile. "But you are kind of pretty." This was said with perfect conviction.

Amon's smile slowly faded down to a serious look, as he looked down into Robin's face. "So are you." This was new territory for them, an approach they had never taken before. Lying there, staring into each other's faces, neither one of them had anywhere to hide or anything to hide behind. The admittances were so simple; so they'd agreed to the fact that they were both pretty. It was probably the closest, emotionally, that Amon had been to a woman in as long as he could remember.

In a way, it felt like learning how to communicate with a woman all over again, starting down at the very simplest of compliments. It was probably a lesson that Amon needed.

Robin looked very secretively agog at his sudden acknowledgement of her appearance. Her face wore a hopeful expression simultaneously. "Amon?" she asked, her voice tiny and tremulous. "Can we stay like…this, for a while?" Perhaps thinking that he hadn't understood what she meant, Robin elaborated: "Lying here, I mean."

"Yes." He didn't even have to think before replying. His arm tightened around her and his other found its way under and around her body, bypassing the blankets that covered her. Amon's chin came to rest atop her head, and after a few seconds of settling in he felt one of Robin's arms slipping delicately and timidly over his side.

"I miss you, when you go away from me," she said suddenly in a whisper, "when you distance yourself."

Amon swallowed against a dry throat. "I miss you too." The communication level was that of teenagers on their first date; but considering that one of them _was_ a teenager and the other one had the emotional intimacy skills of a rock, Amon figured they weren't doing half bad. "I know I hurt you." Her silence seemed like denial. "I know I hurt you all the time."

"It's okay." Robin's voice was light, as if she either had willed herself to forget about all the times he'd hurt her or as if she was trying to distance herself from still fresh pain. "You were just trying to do what was best for me."

Amon shook his head, faintly. "Not always. You're giving me too much credit. Sometimes I was just trying to frighten you away, I think, because I am frightened of _you_."

This statement gave Robin considerable pause. "Why are you afraid of me?" she asked, hurt seeping into her voice. "It's my powers—"

Letting his head come to rest more fully on hers, Amon shook it negatively once more and let his hand once again stroke her hair. "It isn't your powers. I am afraid of you because I am afraid of _us_."

"Oh." Robin was startled and filled with partial understanding. Her arm tightened around his side, her face pressing into the space where his shoulder met his torso. "Oh." It was a breath from her mouth, into the fabric of his shirt. She sounded somehow embarrassed, as if she had intruded into a room in his personality and mind that she didn't have any business in.

Neither one of them said another word. Robin fell asleep first, Amon following after quite some time simply because he did not want to move and leave her side or the room.

…………………………………

Morning was not as awkward as Robin would have thought it would be. For the first time in the entire time she'd been sleeping on and off, she slept without dreams. She slept a full, long, contented sleep, and awoke in the morning, somehow not as affected by being in Amon's arms as she thought she would be.

The sounds of ruckus were plainly heard downstairs and more quietly in the hallway. Yawning, Robin stretched slightly in place and felt Amon's arms starting to move around her, heard the slow intake of breath through the nose that indicated that one was awake. Hazarding a glance up at him she found him hazarding one down at her, his face blank and even; but a benign kind of even. He said nothing and Robin said nothing. He moved his arms for her to roll over and sit up, scratching at her by then rather limp, unwashed hair.

"Hi." That was her first word. She wasn't quite sure what had happened last night. Amon had been so enigmatic—she felt better off than she had before, but she hadn't felt anywhere near comfortable enough with the situation to even begin to suggest how she really might have felt about him—how she'd felt for months.

"Hello." That was Amon's reply. His shadowed face needed a shave and also clearly spoke of needing more sleep. "Are you going to get up today?"

"I think so." Robin scooted to the edge of his bed—she'd just suddenly realized that she was in his bedroom—and placed her feet experimentally on the floor. "I feel fine, I guess. I'm kind of hungry."

"You said the same thing last night." Amon sounded bemused. Despite looking haggard, he looked much more relaxed than Robin had ever seen him look. She noticed that he was still fully clothed all the way down to his boots, and still on top of the covers. How he could look more relaxed after having slept in full clothing, Robin didn't quite understand.

"I suppose I'd better have a bath before I do anything," Robin said, heading slowly for the door. Amon sat up some and the movement stopped Robin in her tracks.

"The bathroom might be occupied," he informed her, and to her look of confusion about his bathroom warning, he added: "The house has taken on new occupants while you slept. Lots of them."

………………………….

Robin's reappearance in the house caused much elation among both her old housemates and her new ones. People continued to flock and fuss even as she sat at the table in the dining room, shoveling down crepes and fruit as if her stomach had a hole in it. She recognized some of them vaguely from the get-together that had been held at the house a while back, but some of them were entirely new to her.

She was unnerved that there were so many new people to place her recently-tremulous-and-with-good-cause trust in, but knew that there was little she could do about it. Busy thirstily gulping down a glass of water, Robin kept her eyes on a young man who was standing next to her in the semi-queue that had formed for people waiting to say something to her. "Christ, I'm probably going to get kicked out of university for coming here when Trygve asked me to," he said, looking worried for a second. "But that's fine. I told 'em that me mum was very, very ill and I had to go home to take care of her."

The middle-aged woman behind the young man in the queue raised her hand slightly. "I'll pretend to be your mother if you need some help convincing the university," she offered, her voice decidedly German. He looked back at her with a smile of appreciation.

"Thanks," he enthused, relieved. "I just wanted to tell you, Eve, that I'm glad to meet you and I hope to be of help."

"Thank you," Robin said, with a quick smile, before taking a ferocious bite of a nectarine, the juice threatening to run down her chin. Nagira looked on from her other side in amusement. The Eve of Witches continued to eat as if there would be no food at all tomorrow, all the while witches coming up at her side to gushingly meet her.

………………………………..

"There is to be a meeting of sorts, tonight," Sigrún was informing Robin and Amon, who stood before her in the office. Eirikur struggled against his mother's arms, apparently having taken great interest in what appeared to be a billfold on the large desk in front of them. Noises of child-frustration escaped him and Sigrún re-gripped him and hiked him up further into her arms. "We shall discuss a plan of action. It would be best for us to act now before either SOLOMON or the committee has much of a chance to formulate a plan."

"If they don't have a plan already," Amon murmured. "It seems a bit as if they do."

Sigrún looked almost _pained_ and mildly irritated with her son's struggling. "Oh, fie. Would it kill you to have a bit of hope then and again, Amon?" she asked of him, shortly, to which Robin couldn't help but smile a little and Amon looked somehow _caught_ in something. "Forgive me. It has been stressful, all of this. Finn's betrayal, Robin's state, all of these people, Eirikur getting into _everything_—" Almost on cue, Eirikur succeeded in getting free enough from his mother's grasp to snatch up the billfold, pulling cards out of it with glee. A card that landed on the desk showed the billfold to be Trygve's; a Danish national ID card with his smiling face flopping out onto a stack of papers. Sigrún let loose what was presumably a torrent of curses in Icelandic and moved to take the billfold away from her son, who was busy flagging it about in the air, causing things to come flying out of it.

"Would you like some help?" Robin asked valiantly amidst Sigrún's disgruntled Icelandic (not that the language didn't sound permanently disgruntled under normal situations). As she moved around the desk to assist in collecting the items that had flown out of the billfold the office door opened and Trygve came in with the maid Helle and a rather elderly old man. The maid was clearly struggling to keep a straight face, lugging along a suitcase.

"Sigrún," Trygve began, "do we have any rooms left unoccupied?" His wife shook her head at him, harried. He frowned. "Are you certain?" She nodded. "Oh, _lort_."

"Why?" Amon asked curiously, turning from the Eirikur scene to look at Trygve.

"We have another guest," Trygve replied. "This is Christer. He has come to stay with us and help us plan, a witch from here within Denmark. He knows much of the comings and goings of SOLOMON within this country, having observed them for many years. Unfortunately we have no rooms left for him…it would not be seemly for him to sleep in anything less than a room, nor very comfortable."

Amon caught the unspoken words_: he is too old to be stuffed away onto a couch_. "He may have my room." Trygve seemed startled by Amon's sudden relinquishing of his quarters. "I will sleep elsewhere."

Coming up out of nowhere like a bolt, Robin was at Amon's side once more, looking at Trygve determinedly. "No, he may have _my_ room." She looked up at Amon, sensing his unspoken disapproval. "Where will you sleep if you allow him to have your room?" she asked.

"Where will _you_ sleep?" Amon retorted, and Robin furrowed her brow.

"I can sleep on the floor," Robin said matter-of-factly, and this seemed to rouse hurried disagreement from everyone in the room including the old Danish man.

"Perhaps he should have Sigrún and I's room," Trygve spoke. "We are the hosts, after all—"

Robin shook her head, adamant. "No…that's unacceptable. We can't ask you to give up your room." Her eyes moved up to Amon, pleadingly. He looked away.

"He may have my room," Amon said with an air of finality. "I'll move my things out of it shortly." He noticed his brother stick his head in the door of the office with a light rap of his knuckles on the door. Before anyone could say anything to Nagira by way of greeting or inquiry, Robin spoke again.

"But where are _you_ going to sleep?" Robin asked of Amon again, preternaturally concerned with his sleeping arrangements. He offered her a noncommittal shrug, as if to say anywhere. A sudden hardening of Robin's normally soft yet intense green eyes let him know that this was not an acceptable answer, even as Trygve and Helle turned to lead Christer out of the office and towards the main staircase, past Nagira. "We'll share a room," Robin said, not leaving much room for argument. "You can't just sleep on the _floor_."

Amon noted with something akin to internal embarrassment that by this point, both Sigrún and Nagira were watching the exchange with interest and muted amusement. "And why not?" he asked, trying to keep that clipped embarrassment out of his tone. "Plenty of the others are." It was not as if he was against the idea of sharing a room with Robin (aside from the vague sense of fear that it instilled in him), but it wasn't exactly something he felt comfortable discussing with an audience present.

Robin was guiltily disgruntled by his statement, but did not waver. "They are not _you_. I won't let you sleep on the floor."

He wasn't going to win, unless he wanted to be an ass. He didn't feel like being an ass, especially since he'd more or less offered to stop being so much of one the night before. "Okay. _Fine_. We'll use your room." Eager to end the rather private discussion turned public, Amon turned to Nagira abruptly. "Did you need something?"

"I was just going to ask you if you wanted to go smoke a cigarette," Nagira began, obviously fighting very hard to hide a grin—a fact that Robin seemed oblivious to but was not lost on Amon. "So, wanna smoke?"

"Yes." Amon was emphatic, in his own way.

On the way out of the house, away from all the bustle of the people, Nagira handed his little brother a cigarette and finally let the chuckles come out of him in spite of Amon's fierce glare of warning. "Just say it and stop gloating about it, whatever the hell it is," the ex-Hunter finally spat, staring out at the trees near the house with a particular soreness.

"Since when did _you _start caving to Robin's whims?" his older brother questioned, snickering through a cloud of smoke. "Isn't that _coddling_ her?"

"Smoke your cigarette before I make you eat it," Amon snapped in reply, his teeth grinding at Nagira's continued amusement.

………………………………….

After dinner the household was gathered, initially, in the dining room; however, it was soon noticed that the room was too small and there were witches standing outside the door, unable to hear or participate in the conversation. The meeting was then moved to the front room, with some witches standing and other choosing to sit. The primary inhabitants of the house located themselves on the stairs so that they might see all of the witches present; some standing and some sitting. Robin stood next to Amon, who leaned against one of the banisters, surveying the crowd with a studying glance. Trygve stood next to Sigrún, who sat with Eirikur between her legs. Nagira sat a little in front of Robin and Amon, a gin and tonic in his hand and a cigarette behind his ear. He was still smirking about having hassled Amon (good-naturedly) the entire time the other man had been moving his things from his old room into Robin's. Sula, Trygve's almost preternaturally silent sister, stood near Sigrún; she was not one of the original inhabitants of the house, but in light of recent events the Icelandic hosts wished her to be close.

"I gather that most all of you have had a chance to meet both the Eve and her guardians," Trygve began, and the faint murmurs of witches translating the English into other languages was heard about the large room in several places. "For those of you who haven't, there will be plenty of opportunities. I have thanked all of you for coming here to join us, but I wish to do so again. Your powers and your assistance are needed more than ever."

Silence fell on the great room save the various soft noises of translation, and Trygve looked around before continuing. "As you all know, a traitor—one very close to us—was discovered not days ago and properly dealt with…but not before he passed on vital information about our situation, and not before he severely threatened the Eve's life." Trygve grew deathly serious. "Such betrayal earned its just rewards at my own hands. I have mentioned to you before the costs of betrayal of this sort. This is no longer a negotiable matter, this matter between us, SOLOMON, and the high committee; there will be no mercy for those who are discovered to have ulterior motives."

Trygve's silence was met with more silence from the crowd, and Robin spared a quick glance at Sula, who appeared both mollified and greatly saddened by the mention of her ex-husband and his treachery. She looked away hastily, feeling somehow guilty. The ice cubes in Nagira's glass clinked as he took a sip from it.

"You have been asked here for your help, your support, your information." Trygve's eyes scanned the crowd slowly from behind his glasses, intense and perfectly blue. "We can make no guarantees as to your own personal safety or that of your loved ones. This is dangerous business, and anyone who wishes not to be a part of it is free to leave at any time under pain of silence. I would not ask more of any of you than you were freely willing to give."

Robin's eyes caught on a man in the crowd, scruffy-faced and dreadlocked, and he offered her a supportive smile.

"Then we know what it is we must do. Our fight is, as ever, with SOLOMON and the high committee. But the time for socializing and politics has passed and the time for action has come. If we are going to stand against them, the time is now. They have already made up their minds about us, and we have but only one choice, one response: to fight." Trygve paused yet again and his eyes briefly flicked down to his wife and their child, and Robin's heart lurched; this man had so much more to lose than them, and he gave it all so effortlessly.

"But if we're gonna fight and make it a fight worth waging," Nagira spoke suddenly, "then we need information. I've been in contact with my sources in Japan and East Asia, but what we need from you guys now is what _you've_ heard, what you know."

Amon nodded, straightening some at Robin's side, drawing himself up to more of his full height. "Agreed. Speak up. Among us before you range a wealth of languages, so do not let your lack of English intimidate you."

Robin sighed, watching as a few witches began to stand; some quickly, others less certainly, as if they were afraid that their news was unimportant. After those who stood, hands began to rise slowly as if they were in a classroom, and the murmur of translation gained in pitch as people began to converse amongst themselves quietly, discussing their information.

Thus began the meeting.

………………………………….

Two hours later found them collecting such a wealth of information that Nagira had hurried off for a pen and paper and began to jot it all down in quick, short-hand Japanese. Looking over his shoulder briefly, Robin found with a peculiar shock that she couldn't understand most of it—either Nagira's handwriting was horrible and he was miswriting words or she was simply losing her ability to read hiragana and katakana through disuse.

Amon had sat down next to his brother so that he could peer over at the notes from time to time. "So you say you're _certain_ that Reznik has a permanent home in Prague?" he asked the woman in the back of the room. She nodded slowly.

"Positive. He is there almost all of the time. When my cousin worked for Reznik before he disappeared, he used to go to the house all the time. Reznik was there nine times out of ten."

Robin looked down at Amon, at the crown of his dark head. "It would be easy for you to find him there, wouldn't it, Amon?"

A grunt issued forth from her ex-partner. "Yeah. I'm not certain if it's a good idea to go after him first, however." Pointing at something on the pad of paper, Nagira nodded and Amon turned to Robin. "Reznik is more than likely the best protected out of the committee members. Perhaps we would do well to start attacking their ranks. Thin them out a bit."

Sigrún, whom had been involved with other conversations, looked over to Robin. "Amon is right. It would be foolish of us to throw everything we had against Reznik just to lose and then lose any chance we had at causing damage. There are weak links in the committee, and among those closely related to them." Her blue gaze fell upon Robin's face intensely. "Perhaps it would do us well to discover what, exactly, the committee and SOLOMON's plans for you are."

"SOLOMON has no plans for me except to kill me," the young witch answered, her voice cold and detached. "The committee's plans are much the same except that they wish to use me against SOLOMON before I die." Her gaze slipped down to her feet, eyes narrowed at an invisible spot on the carpeted stairs. "And if I will not agree to being used, they would rather kill me themselves just for the satisfaction of it rather than let some nameless SOLOMON Hunters do it."

A boy who looked to be no older than Robin near the front of the crowd made a scoffing noise at her words, to which she looked up in surprise. "Hunters," he muttered, grumbling something to himself about SOLOMON. An invisible light bulb went off above his head a split second later and he jerked his head up to look at Robin, his dark brown eyes meeting her preternaturally emerald ones. "_Hunters!_ _Eu tenho uma ideia!_"

Still regarding him with the same surprised countenance, Robin nodded. "What's your idea?"

"We know that SOLOMON and Hunters have ties to the committee, yes?" the boy began, excitedly, "and we know that if we go out into public and act up with our powers that SOLOMON will Hunt us. But what if the Hunters…" He glanced from Robin to Amon and back to Robin meaningfully, "…became the Hunted?"

"As in trapping Hunters?" Robin queried, thoughtful. "It could be a particularly good way to gain information…especially if we could somehow discover the names of Hunters that have dealt with the committee before and their Hunting areas." She looked to Amon, whose eyes spoke of thought. He looked to the boy.

"Playing with SOLOMON's European Hunters is no game," he said to the younger man, slowly. "What you propose could be exceedingly risky…yet profitable, information-wise."

The warning did not seem to affect the dark-skinned, dark-eyed boy in the least. He merely shrugged. "There are so many of us here! We could easily form groups and overtake a Hunter." His finger pointed at the people on the stairs in earnest. "That would leave you to the task of finding the committee members, taking care of them! We could all work as a team!" A few voices of assent came from the crowd of witches, and Nagira leaned over to Amon.

"There are an awful lot of lives in this room to be responsible for," the lawyer spoke in an undertone into his brother's ear. "It might not be the brightest idea to send half of them packing to their deaths."

Robin heard Nagira's undertone and crouched down behind the two brothers, her eyes flicking to both of them. "No one is sending anyone. They've volunteered. That boy is right…if they band together in groups, all with Crafts, they might easily overtake a Hunter."

Trygve, listening in, pursed his lips. "_Might_. Hunters do not always travel or stalk alone."

"If they travel in groups usually only one among them has offensive Craft magic," Robin argued, her face turning to Trygve. "The others usually rely upon defensive Crafts or weapons. They are easy enough to take care of." Her face hardening, she spoke after a pause. "Amon and I have killed dozens of them."

"But you're the frickin' Eve of Witches—" The words had just started to come out of Nagira's mouth when an abrupt and rather unexpected knock sounded from the giant wooden front door. A rolling ocean of a murmur drifted through the room, everyone's attention suddenly on the door. Robin, casting her gaze to the door as well, felt the flaring of several Crafts within the room, as well as heard the distinct sound of loading guns. She looked down at the brothers in front of her and then across the room; apparently Nagira and Amon were not the only ones who were armed.

Their Icelandic hosts conferred through a stare and then Trygve motioned for Beatrix, who stood dutifully near the front door, to open it. She did so, but only a crack, leaving everyone in the room quiet and tense, waiting to pounce if need be.

The energy and the power in the room was enough to make Robin feel lightheaded, vaguely.

Beatrix turned from the door, closing it a bit as she faced the group on the stairs over the mess of witches. "An older gentleman is here. A priest." The maid was definitively confused. "He says he wishes to have talks."

Trygve motioned for the red-head to open the door fully and she complied, revealing a dignified older gentleman garbed in the habit of a Father, a cloak lying over the garb to keep him warm. A top hat sat upon his head and he held an impressive, regal-in-appearance walking cane—

Robin and Amon shot up at very nearly the same moment, both similarly wide-eyed. Robin remained frozen. Amon's hand shot up, leveling his gun at the gentleman's face. Upon seeing his cue, Nagira promptly followed suit and several members of the group did as well. The level of Craft energy in the room surged upwards tenfold; if there had been Orbo in the room, it would have been boiling over and out of its confines by that point.

"Father _Juliano_?" Robin burst out loudly, in disbelief. She looked around the room in horror at all the guns leveled at her grandfather and the Crafts poised and ready to attack. "Stop!" she shrieked, terrified that someone would jump the gun and kill the man. "Lower your guns! This man means us no harm—he is my grandfather!"

Trygve was instantly wary; looking over to Robin with a suspicious slant to his eyes. "Your grandfather? As in your grandfather who sits among the High Council of SOLOMON?" Robin shot Trygve a momentary super-heated, pained look, and observed with relief that the weapons were lowering, the electric crackle of Craft in her mind was dimming. Amon's gun was still leveled at the man as sure as ever.

"Amon!" Robin hissed, a plea. "_Please_. _Don't_."

Appearing as if he would come to regret lowering his gun, Amon did so incrementally, but kept his eyes locked on Juliano. "He might be your grandfather, Robin, but the man is SOLOMON." Nagira appeared startled by the conversation going on between the two ex-Hunters.

"He is the one who saved my life as a child," Robin protested quietly.

"He is the one who ordered me to kill you," Amon countered, his jaw set in stone. His eyes moved from the priest across the room to Robin's face, locking onto her eyes meaningfully. "He may have changed his mind out of regret, but you would let this man come back into your life so soon?"

Horrified, Robin narrowed her eyes at Amon. "Enough! He may have ordered you to kill me, but you actually _attempted_ it, and yet I still trust you." These words seemed to strike something inside of Amon and his eyes grew cloudy, guilty. "Please. I trust this man. You may not, but you can at least trust _me_."

There was silence from Amon; heavy, defeated silence. Robin looked up at him, her eyes warm. "Thank you," she whispered.

There was a definite murmur in the room then, sparked by both the mention of the newcomer's ties to SOLOMON and the Eve's adamant reactions regarding the weapons pointed at him. The crowd parted quickly as Robin stepped down the stairs quickly, headed for the Father. Amon was hot on her heels, wordlessly. Nagira, due in part to curiosity and a desire to defend his brother's back, moved after Amon. The Father was removing his top hat and untying his cloak, smiling as Robin made her way across the vaulted entry hall towards him. A shocked, perhaps disagreeing noise issued collectively from the group of witches when Robin dropped to her knees before the old man, allowing him to touch her on the forehead; the Eve, bowing to a mere old man.

"God bless you, my child," Juliano said, in his ancient yet still deep voice, and motioned for Robin to rise. She did so and Juliano looked over her shoulder to Amon and his stern face. "And Amon, God bless you as well. I see you are as dedicated to my granddaughter's protection as you were to any task."

Amon nodded back, his eyes boring into the older man. "Juliano. What in the hell are you doing here?" A hint of a smile graced Juliano's wrinkled features at Amon's brusqueness. "Even if you haven't come to harm us directly, your coming indirectly harms us with your very _presence_. SOLOMON would be watching you, old man. You know that."

Nagira wore an expression of shell-shock at the rest of the room began to huddle and group, the din of conversation beginning to rise. "…wait, wait, _wait_. So this guy is _really_ your grandfather?" he asked of Robin, hurriedly. She didn't seem to hear him.

"No one watches me, Amon, my son," the Father said, leaning his cane against the wall near the door and handing his cloak to Beatrix, who accepted it with a bewildered air. "I am the one that does the watching. That is why I have come to speak with you two," he said, indicating Robin and Amon. "I have information about those you seek. I may be of SOLOMON, but remember that even SOLOMON does not like to be manipulated."

Robin nodded, her childlike wonder at seeing her grandfather dissipating into a business attitude. "The committee. Follow me, Father. We can talk in this room over here." She began to lead him towards Trygve's office, around the crowd of witches, offering her tiny arm to the old man for support as he walked. "Oh! The man next to Amon is his half-brother Nagira."

Walking along behind the Father and Robin, Nagira grabbed Amon's shoulder and forced him to slow his pace, leaning over to hiss into his brother's ear. "What. The. _Hell_. You didn't tell me that Robin had a gramps in SOLOMON."

Amon said nothing and kept walking, Nagira attached.

"You didn't tell me that she had a gramps in SOLOMON who was a _Father_." Nagira's face managed to break into a small, snarky grin despite the seriousness of the situation. "So I take it he probably wouldn't approve of you sharing a room—probably a bed—with his little cookie, right?" Amon was still silent. Nagira smelled a victory. "You know, she did seem pretty adamant about the whole thing—shouldn't you two be married before—"

Amon cut Nagira's words off by stopping dead in his tracks and grabbing his brother's shoulders, his face instantly and completely menacing. Both brothers missed Robin's sudden look of utter teenage horror at Nagira so openly talking about how she and Amon were now sharing a room in front of her grandfather. Juliano, however, was either completely oblivious to the situation or was tactfully ignoring it.

"_Listen_, Nagira," Amon began, the words a thinly veiled threat. "Juliano apparently came here to give us information, not to discover that Robin and I are sharing a room." He closed his eyes momentarily, as if searching for some kind of inner calm. "We do not need this man harbouring ill will towards us because he thinks I'm carrying on with his young, unmarried granddaughter…so if you mention _anything_ about _anything_ again, so help me Syunji, I am going to break my foot off in your ass."

Slowly but surely a grin spread across Nagira's face as the two men began to walk again, catching up with Robin and her decidedly slower grandfather. "Anything about anything, huh?" His tone became hushed. "Does that mean something _happened?_" His eyebrows wiggled despite Amon's quick, sideways glance of utter vitriol.

"My foot. _Your ass_." That was all Amon had to say by way of reply as they drew closer to Trygve's office, closer to the two figures immersed in quiet conversation.

……………………………………

A lawyer through and through, Nagira was both skeptical and more than willing to cross-examine the hell out of the old man, even if neither Amon nor Robin seemed willing to do it. Robin was mystified and thoroughly enthralled by the man who was apparently her grandfather and Amon was quiet, even as the man talked to him as if he was years younger than he was. _So this is the guy who ordered Amon to Hunt Robin, _Nagira thought, watching the old priest's words from behind his steepled fingers. _Nice grandpa. _Upon further reflection, Nagira wondered if perhaps Amon was so quiet because he was somehow _guilty._

Anything about anything, indeed. Nagira barely resisted the urge to grin like a smug child.

"So why are you telling us all of this?" he piped up during a lull in Juliano's speech, face serious and wearing the mask of the interrogator. "Where did you get this information?—and furthermore, how do we know that we can trust it?"

Juliano's weathered yet still intimidating face pulled into a smile, chuckling slightly. "I'm telling you this because I can. SOLOMON isn't as black and white as you would be inclined to think, Mr. Nagira. There are those of us within who don't always agree with what the larger group is doing, and at this point in my life I have been with them for so long and have risen so far that my affairs are of no concern to anyone else. I make sure of that."

"Father Juliano sits on SOLOMON's High Council," Robin informed Nagira, to which he nodded.

"That's nice. That also just means that he had to kill a lot of people and probably step on a lot of heads to get there." Both Robin and Amon shot him almost identical looks of _watch your damn mouth_, but Juliano merely laughed; a rattling old thing. "Well? That's true, isn't it?"

"Of course," Juliano answered in a light tone. "But remember that I was the one who saved Robin; I was the one who protected my own daughter, also a witch; I was one of the ones who spurred SOLOMON into taking action against Zaizen and his foolish and disgusting Orbo project." Here he indicated Amon, smiling fondly. "I taught this boy how to read Latin and how to decipher runes—although I fear he was never very good at that; never as good as Robin was. I'd hoped one day for him to sit on the Council when I was long gone; hoped to bring someone with at least a little compassion and sense, to take my place, but…well." He chuckled somewhat, eyeing an embarrassed or flattered Amon. "We all know how that turned out. And while I did not wish for Robin to die, I did not wish this life for her either, but…it seems it has happened, in any case."

Nagira groaned, rubbing his eyes with blatant frustration. "Christ, do all of you SOLOMON people have to be so damn _crooked_? Have so many secrets?" He eyed the three people in front of him evenly, each in turn. "All of you. It really gets my goat sometimes."

Robin leaned forward, her eyes glinting and hard. She looked at her grandfather pointedly. "So…you're certain that these people are where you say they are? Certain they will be there when you said they will be there?" Her face was sharp and concentrated; her very being was vibrating with some kind of unknown emotion—could it be vengeance, Nagira wondered? "It wouldn't do us any good to go out and expose ourselves, especially in times like these…"

Her grandfather nodded, sagely. "I am certain. As always, you are aware that the Hunters will be out looking for you, even more so now than before. The Committee is spurring SOLOMON on, hustling along this Hunt for the both of you." Juliano offered yet another smile to his granddaughter, his eyes twinkling. "And remember that no man, especially most of the ones in SOLOMON, likes to be made a fool of again and again. There are those among the ranks who are growing displeased, to say the least, about your abilities to slip away every single time."

"My life is worth more than those old fools' honour," spat Amon, flatly. "Tenfold. They can consider it retribution for how skeptical they were of me while I trained, simply because I was from Japan." Apparently at some point in time in the past Amon had been grievously insulted by people within SOLOMON, but he paused for a moment and restrained his ire. "Robin's life is tenfold _over_ my tenfold, and my brother's is on par with hers."

Growing sober, Juliano regarded Amon solemnly and searchingly, shaking his head slightly. "This is why I wished for you to one day take my place on the High Council," he murmured, "your staunch devotion, your regard for human life. Your duality is what made you valuable to SOLOMON—your ability to respect human life and completely disregard it at the same time made them anxious to retain you. This is why they are so upset that you have allied yourself with Robin. Catching her is going to be that much more difficult."

"Let's not talk about the past," Robin herself urged suddenly, looking from Juliano to Amon with a pleading look. "The inner workings of SOLOMON are no longer for us, Father, unless we are looking at them only to tear them apart." The amazing here-then-gone-again backbone that Robin possessed asserted itself. "We no longer have cause to care what SOLOMON thinks of us. Amon's worth no longer comes from the old men who issue him his orders, and my worth no longer comes from how well I can be preened to Hunt, how well my abilities can be _tapped_."

Silence reigned in the room, the three men sitting there all amazed in their own quiet ways at Robin's strength, her calm assuredness. Atypically, Robin did not falter once she realized the eyes of the men were all on her. "We are done with SOLOMON not only giving us our worth, but giving our _lives_ worth. I will never be safe until SOLOMON is gone; or leashed and shackled." The calm conviction was gradually melting into a kind of sad vulnerability. "…and I don't want to live like this forever, this life like a never-ending disappearing act. God created all humans with a purpose; and he moved Toudou to create me. That was Toudou's purpose. Mine is yet to be fulfilled, but I am moving towards it."

"Go with God, then," Juliano said, standing suddenly. "I feel that God no longer goes with SOLOMON. He must go with you, then." He smiled at Robin then, warm and enveloping, and instantly Robin somehow _knew_ that it would be the last time she saw that smile. Whether it would be the last time by some sort of treachery or murder, or natural cause, she knew not, but something within her told her that it was the last time she would see this man in her lifetime. She closed her eyes against the stinging tears that prickled there without warning, feeling Juliano's hand come to rest on her forehead as she sniffled rapidly and quietly, pressing her trembling lips together into a taut line. "I shall leave God here with you, then, my child, and take my leave of you both. I—we—SOLOMON—are divorced of him, nowadays. I will go to seek out God wherever I can find him, and that will be that."

Robin opened her eyes suddenly, the tears running out, and stood. She was significantly shorter than the man standing before her, even in his stooped age. "Father—grandfather—I love you." She threw aside the pretenses of Father and disciple, for the first time in her life and embraced the man, something she had never done before. Her face pressed into the front of his habit which smelled of cleanliness and old books, as if he'd been poring over ancient texts for years. "Thank you. I love you."

The old man hugged his granddaughter back, smoothing her hair on her head, hand flowing over the loose bun at the back of her head as if it wasn't there. "May God forgive me for what I have done to you, my child. May He now turn His eye to seeing you safely through all of your trials." Releasing Robin, Juliano turned to Amon and rested his hand on top of the man's dark head. Amon stared back up at him, unflinchingly. "And you, may God forgive you for the things I bade you do. May He now turn His eye to guiding you to protect those you value."

He turned to Nagira and placed his hand upon the lawyer's head, and not even Nagira had the audacity to tell the man that he did not believe in God. "And you, my child, God grant you the strength to assist and support your brother or Robin in whatever they may need. May He keep you safe." Turning away, Juliano faced the door, setting his jaw and his eyes. "The time has come for us to part ways."

Robin, nodding tearfully, took her grandfather's arm and began to walk him to the door.

………………………………..

Amon rejoined Trygve and the others with Nagira in tow, both of them looking somehow _dazed_ in a way. Trygve noticed this and frowned upon their arrival, looking to them with concern. "Is everything alright?" he asked, to which Amon nodded.

"Yes." Amon considered his next words and sighed. "We've just gained some rather important information as to members of the committee's whereabouts."

Nagira nodded in concurrence with his brother's words. "I think we also just said goodbye," he said, to which Trygve appeared mildly confused but did not pry.

…………………………………….

**Well. That took me about five bajillion years. Oh well. Sorry it took so long for this chapter to come out; a number of things kept me from putting it up as soon as I wanted to. First off, I was preternaturally concerned about the quality of the chapter and I kept tweaking the hell out of it whenever I got the chance. I had also been busy with work and other Real Life Issues which kept me from writing as much as I'd wanted to (not to mention a small breakdown and a change of medication, whee paranoid delusions!). I've started up school again which means that a portion of my spare time shall now be devoted to classwork.**

**All in all: sorry. Fanfic writers have real lives, too, even for as much as we wish we didn't sometimes. **


	22. Never As Tired As When I'm Waking Up

Her face freshly washed and scrubbed, it was hard to tell that Robin had ever been crying at all. She was shuffling about the room uneasily, even though it was hers and she was completely familiar with it. The only thing she was semi-unfamiliar with was the small pile of belongings at the foot of the bed that had not been there any other night. They were Amon's things, and after she'd come back into the room from the bathroom, he'd headed for it to do his nightly before bed things.

This was going to be a bit awkward, both of them going to bed at the same time. It wasn't as if they hadn't ever shared a bed before, but it had usually been under different circumstances—well, aside from that one night in Iceland, which had just been a complete fluke. Usually they were sharing a bed because the hotel only had one bed rooms left, or because sleeping in separate beds in separate rooms was too dangerous. On those nights either of them barely slept, always painfully aware of the other's presence on the opposite end of the bed; painfully aware of SOLOMON's presence breathing down their necks.

This was different. This was them voluntarily sharing a room, especially after last night… Robin, sighing, climbed into her—their—bed and snuggled under the covers, rolling to face the windows and the wall, her back to the door. She took the far end of the bed, leaving the side closest to the bedside table open for Amon. Moments later he re-entered the room and sorted through his belongings briefly. She felt the opposite end of the bed dip slightly with his weight as he sat down on it, and then seconds later he lay down slowly and almost stiffly. Robin sighed under her shelter of blankets and extinguished the candles and oil lamps in the room with a thought. Amon shifted at this and then fell still again.

Robin's mind lurched back and forth between the information Juliano had shared with them, the man in her bed, and Juliano himself. No new tears threatened her eyes; she'd seen her grandfather for the last time, and that was that. It could not be helped. She was a rogue witch, he was SOLOMON—it was inevitable that their ways would have parted permanently. Amon shifted again very subtly on the other side of the bed and Robin shifted herself to roll over and hazard a glance at him over the top of her blankets, her eyes squinting to see him in the darkness.

Amon was lying on top of the blankets, nearly fully dressed. The only thing that was missing was his socks and his boots. Robin blinked. It didn't look very comfortable. He was never going to get to sleep like that; not to mention that her room was much chillier than his, and he wasn't even under the blankets.

"Amon." Her voice was a murmur.

"Hmm." He made a noise in the darkness to indicate that he'd heard her.

"You can…make yourself comfortable," she suggested into the darkness, wondering if it sounded too…_suggesting_. "You needn't sleep like…_that_."

There was silence from Amon. He did not move, either.

"I don't mind," Robin added. "It isn't going to bother me. I would rather have you comfortable than awake all night, staring at the ceiling. Plus, it gets rather cold in my room, even with all of the blankets on…you may want to put yourself under the covers."

Amon still did not move, and Robin sighed and gave up, figuring that he was going to stay silent and immobile forever. Slowly he sat up and Robin blinked from her nest of blankets, startled that he'd moved. Unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt, he grasped the back of it and pulled it over his head, discarding it on the floor. A pause accompanied his next movement; he took off his belt and cast that onto the floor as well. Slowly and carefully he moved under the blankets, settling in on his side of the bed away from Robin.

The silence of two people attempting to go to sleep filled the room. Well, one person, anyway. Robin knew that she wasn't actively trying to go to sleep. She _couldn't_. She could hear Amon's breaths; see the back of his dark head merely two feet away from her own. She didn't want to go to sleep yet. She didn't want _him_ to go to sleep yet. His proximity was encouraging her to speak to him, to try to pry down some of the walls around him.

"Amon?" she queried softly, and got a muffled sigh in response. "…are you still awake?" Several minutes had passed since the last words had been spoken.

"Yes," he replied, moving under the blankets.

"I'm glad I got to say goodbye to Juliano, like I did," she said, not really knowing why she was telling him this, but going on. It wasn't as if it was urgent, something he needed to know right then, but she wanted to talk to him. She wanted him to talk back. "I had never…never treated him like a real grandfather. It was never seemly for me to do so, and he never treated me as if I was his granddaughter. I suppose that he showed more interest in my welfare than that of the other convent sisters, but other than that…"

"It wouldn't have been seemly for him to favour you above the others, probably. Also, I think he knew that someday he was going to have to make decisions about your life," Amon said, his dark head unmoving. His hair on the pillow looked a dull kind of lustrous in the darkness and Robin's hands, immobile against her neck, itched to touch it. "Particularly the decision to _end_ your life…it was better for him to keep you distant." His tone sounded different than it had when he had started to speak; it sounded as if he was talking about _himself_, not Juliano.

Robin bit her lip. "…you think the same, don't you?" Amon moved then, rolled over in place to look at her in the darkness. She could barely make out the features of his face but knew that he could probably see hers perfectly, and it made her feel vulnerable. He gazed at her evenly in simple silence for a moment.

"Maybe he kept you distant because he somehow intuitively knew that someday you'd have a talent for asking probing questions." His tone was serious, but there seemed to be some amused truth behind the words. Robin squirmed almost guiltily.

"Well…it's true, isn't it?" she persisted, and Amon sighed. "It's better for you and I to be distant from each other because you have to make decisions about my life, be my warden?"

"You said that you got to _say goodbye_ to Juliano," Amon said suddenly, and Robin frowned at his less-than-graceful characteristic dodge of her question. "Do you really expect that you won't see him again?"

"Yes," she replied, still frowning. "…you didn't answer my question."

Another sigh came from Amon, and he rolled over, once again displaying the back of his head to her. "I know I didn't." Silence ensued as Robin waited for a more full explanation, but none was forthcoming. "We need to sleep, Robin."

She remained frowning for a few moments and then let her face relax, closing her eyes. "I suppose we do," she answered. He'd dodged her questions as was habit for him, but it seemed he hadn't dodged them with the grace or the ferocity that he once had. She burrowed further down into her blankets, her side of the bed. "Good night, then."

"Good night."

………………………………

Consistent movement on the other side of the bed jarred Amon out of sleep. It didn't really _jar_ him; his eyes opened and he stared at the room for a moment with his eyes adjusting to the darkness, his Craft compensating so that he could see more clearly. Rolling over slightly to look over his shoulder, he noticed a lump on the other side of the bed. The lump was Robin, buried to her ears in covers. Gooseflesh erupted on Amon's skin as the cold air of the room touched his bared neck and shoulder, and he looked around confusedly. Looking over at the windows, he narrowed his eyes more and just barely made out whiteness around the corner of a heavy curtain; whiteness and movement. Listening closely, he could hear the wind whistling around the house.

It had started to snow outside and the temperature outside had probably dropped dramatically. Robin's room was freezing cold.

His brain having processed all of this information, he turned his eyes back to the lump of fabric that was Robin. Close scrutiny revealed the Robin-lump to be moving continually, as if powered by a small engine. She was shivering, curled into herself under the blankets in an attempt to keep all the warmth close to her tiny body.

Amon sighed. Of course it would figure that he would _conveniently_ wake up to such a heartbreaking scene. No one with half a heart could look upon the pitiful sight of the Robin-lump and not be compelled to take action. He rolled over and scooted some, reaching out for Robin under the blankets. He successfully moved her towards him some before she awoke and stiffened, startled. Half-formed, incoherent words escaped her mouth in a quiet semi-panic.

"It's just me." Amon pulled her to him and held her close against him, feeling her bare feet moving over his slack-covered shins. Her body still vibrated against him, her hands and feet ice cold. "Your shaking actually woke me up." He looked to where she had been lying before. "Do you always sleep on the side of the bed closest to the windows?"

Robin remained stiff and chattering in his arms for a moment before becoming sleepily grateful for the sudden source of warmth, her arms wrapping up around his neck without abandon. Her body pressed against his and for a split second it gave Amon pause, terrified of the situation and of his own mind, his hands paused deathly still on her back.

_She's just cold. She's not trying to do anything. Your mind is the only thing making the situation awkward_. Amon relaxed after a second and allowed her to cling to him, her shaking beginning to diminish. "I'm cold," she murmured, sounding soft and pitiful and still half-asleep.

"I know." One of her feet rubbed against his shin as if experimentally feeling the fabric of his pants. "I should sleep on that side of the bed from now on." Robin was squirming in his arms against him as if she simply enjoyed the sensation of contact.

"You're warm," she murmured, her arms slipping from around his neck to clasp against her chest, cuddling into him with hunched shoulders. The bumps of her spine, the curves of her ribs were under his hands, a casual reminder as to how tiny she really was. Amon didn't trust himself to talk for a moment.

"I know." It seemed to be all he could say. "I think you get so cold because you're so small," he added. God, could she feel his heart pounding? It wasn't as if this was the first time he'd held her in sleep, but this was the first time that they'd ever been in the _state_ they were in, fresh on the tails of their newfound…whatever it was.

It wasn't anything, really. They hadn't admitted anything to one another, really; nor had they dramatically changed how they acted around one another. It wasn't as if they were in a relationship or anything. They were still ward and warden, only one of them had agreed to stop being such a bastard.

There was something that was decidedly un-ward-like about the way Robin's head was fitting against his neck, however; the way her hot breaths were fanning against his skin and making it very slightly moist with the condensation of breath. And there was something decidedly un-warden-like about the way Amon couldn't stop his arms and hands from giving her a supplemental little squeeze, almost as if his mind had simply wondered how her body would move at his urging.

"Amon," Robin breathed gently, and Amon's heart almost stopped to hear it. He swallowed against a dry throat.

"Yes?" he asked into her hair and found himself equally relieved and empty when she did not reply. She was asleep again, her brain feeding her mouth nonsense in slumber. _What had you wanted to hear her say? If she had looked up to you just now and asked you to kiss her, asked you to make love to her—what would you have done? Is that what you would have wanted to hear from her?_

Amon allowed his head to fall back to the pillow but not before he brushed one very quick, light kiss against an oblivious Robin's forehead—and then spent the next hour lying sober and awake, feeling like a lecherous criminal for even allowing himself that one moment of intimacy with an unaware Robin.

………………………………

"Sleep well?" Nagira asked with savoured glee, watching his brother light a cigarette over the remnants of his breakfast. Sigrún chose that particular moment to conveniently absent herself from the table, wandering towards the kitchen with her plate in hand instead of waiting for one of the maids to come and retrieve it. Amon stared blankly at Nagira, the cigarette smoldering in his hand, an unbroken stream of smoke coming from his nostrils. He looked like a dragon trying to decide whether or not he was going to eat his victim.

"Look. I haven't a clue what you think is going on between Robin and I—although I'm sure if I used the grade-school part of my brain I could come up with some ideas. We are sharing a room, and yes, we are sharing a bed. Other than that there is _nothing_ occurring." Amon blinked and calmly tapped some ash into a glass ashtray that sat near him. "That is that."

Nagira shrugged, masking a smile poorly. "Well, just curious. The dynamic has been a bit different, just so you know. Different enough that it's noticeable…and not just by me. Did you two have a talk, or something?"

Amon rolled his eyes in frustration, letting them come back down to rest on his brother's countenance with ill-masked annoyance. "You're worse than a little girl," Amon groused. "There is more to life than gossip about what is going on in _mine_," he added, to which Nagira laughed.

"Alright, alright," the lawyer said, raising his hands and admitting defeat—for the moment. "Sheesh. Don't get your panties in a bunch about it. Just curious, is all—you and everyone's favourite witch-kid _do_ seem a bit more cuddly, is all."

"If 'cuddly' means nothing has changed, then you're right." Amon stood from the table, pushing his chair back and smashing the barely-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray. He walked towards the door, leaving a smiling Nagira to stare after him. On his way out the dining room door, Amon paused to hold it open for someone; Robin and another unnamed witch. Robin looked over to Amon briefly, managing a small smile. "Good morning," she greeted, to which Amon nodded, his face softened.

"Good morning," he replied, and then shot a quick look of _shut the hell up_ at his brother, who watched the very brief interaction with amusement. Robin and the unnamed witch filtered into the dining room and Amon looked away from Nagira and left the room. The lawyer turned his smiling face to Robin and the other witch as they sat down, beginning to pick over the remnants of breakfast.

………………………………..

"There look to be fewer witches in the house, today," Amon remarked to Trygve, who nodded in agreement. His sister Sula trailed wordlessly after him as they entered the office room. Amon took a seat in front of Trygve's desk as the other man seated himself behind it, and Sula perched herself quietly on the corner of the desk.

"That is because there are," the bespectacled host replied. "Ten or so of our guests departed this morning for parts unknown to stir up trouble."

Amon's brow creased. "What do you mean?"

"Several of them decided to get a head start on their plan for distracting SOLOMON," Trygve explained, with a sigh. "Whether or not this is foolishness…only time will tell. I know that at least four or five of them were headed back to their home countries. The others, I think, were heading straight into Italy."

The creased brow had turned into an all-out incredulous scowl. "They're out of their minds. Italy? They are dead." Amon looked off at the wall in thought, then looked back to Trygve. "What sort of mayhem can a handful of witches cause in Italy, anyway? A handful against the homeland might of SOLOMON…complete and utter _suicide_."

"I believe," the silent woman spoke suddenly, in a heavily accented voice, "that they were meeting up with others along the way. I was to understand that if they succeeded in reaching Italy alive and rendezvousing with other witches, that they would send a postcard to the house." She offered a resigned, calm little shrug as an answer to Amon's continued incredulous look. "That was what I understood."

Trygve offered a similar shrug when Amon looked back to him. "Perhaps we should be grateful for the cover, if they succeed."

"Which they won't," Amon replied, darkly. "There is a damn good reason Robin and I have never gone anywhere _near_ Italy in our travels. SOLOMON would probably _smell_ us the moment we got close enough." He leaned back in his chair, elbow on the armrest and fist under his chin. "Do we want to go back to Iceland first? Or should we go to France first? Or Scotland?"

"I have ways of granting us safe passage into Iceland," Trygve replied, leaning forward on his desk. "We can go wherever you'd like, first. Oskari might not be in Iceland for much longer; perhaps we should go there first and act on our chance." Blonde eyebrows shrugged. "I suppose it just depends on who you'd like to kill first."

Amon sat in pensive silence, apparently pondering Trygve's statement. "We need more information first. Juliano gave us the locations, and while I'd like to trust Juliano completely…I've known the man for too long. I can't. I won't be swayed, like Robin, just because he's her grandfather." Grey eyes looked up to blue ones, behind glasses. "Work your contacts. See if you can ascertain the validity of Juliano's information…and try to do it as quickly and discreetly as possible. If we can get more information about all of this…" The ex-Hunter paused, rubbing at his chin. "…we'll go to Iceland first. It'll make an easy starting point for a relatively unobtrusive entry into Scotland. After that, we'll probably be hard pressed to make it back to the Continent without being noticed…"

Sula looked to her brother with her eyes only. Her head remained turned towards Amon. "I do not think we will be able to come back here, Trygve. I think we will need to relocate, after Oskari and Donald are dead. After that, the committee and SOLOMON will have to have known that it was us. We could go to America…"

Amon shook his head before Trygve could reply. "Too far. She's right, though. We're going to need somewhere to go…and I think it highly unlikely that we'll be able to bring this entire…_entourage_ with us. We're going to have to break up, I think. We may have to consider going into France after we've obtained safer quarters than these."

Trygve opened his mouth to speak, his eyes flicking briefly to the door when it opened quietly and discreetly. Robin's head poked in, and she entered quickly as if she was a high schooler trying to sneak into class late and unnoticed. "We may lose the opportunity to get Julien, then."

"That may be." Amon noticed Robin as she was halfway to the empty chair next to him, and was momentarily distracted by her presence; a gap in his speech. "That may be," he reiterated, picking up his lost train of thought, "but we may have to take that loss. I'd say keeping all of us alive and safe is more important at this stage than trying to kill three birds with one stone. By the time we leave Scotland—Sula is right—chances are good that SOLOMON, at the committee's behest, will be right on our ass."

Robin looked confused, having come in right in the middle of plotting.

"I think I might know of somewhere for us to relocate to," Amon continued. "I will have to find out about it, however. In the meantime, you talk to who you know."

Sula's eyes slid back over to Amon after having rested on her brother for the last minute or so, judging his reactions. "What of the other witches here?"

"I will think of something for them to do." Amon looked over to Robin. "Iceland, Scotland, or France. Pick one."

Robin looked back to Amon with a completely and ironically innocent look on her face. "What does it matter?" she queried of him, plainly. "We're going to have to kill them _all_ at some point or another—does order matter?"

Trygve and Sula regarded each other with a look that seemed to say _well, she's right_, as Amon looked at Robin in even blankness. He looked away abruptly, rubbing his eyes with a hand, his face squinting some.

"You've spent too much time around me," he said flatly, to which Robin offered him a helpless little look—not that he saw it.

………………………………….

Nagira found his brother and Sula sitting in the parlor that evening, talking. Admittedly, Nagira's first thought was that Robin would probably inwardly jealous if she'd walked in on it. His second thought was that Robin was too guileless for that; she'd walk in and just see Amon talking to Sula, not anything else that most other girls would read into the situation. He took a seat on the other side of the quiet Icelandic woman and offered a short nod at his brother as a greeting. "What's up?"

Amon lifted a half-empty glass at his brother vaguely, and shrugged. "Having a few drinks before we head out on our death mission tomorrow. I suppose you could say I'm enjoying the last bit of…_normalcy_ we might have for a while."

Nagira nodded. "Yeah. It's pretty serious now, huh? We're going to be pretty much running for our lives after we start knocking off committee members."

"And there are a lot of us to be running," Sula commented to no one in particular, taking a drink from her own glass. "All of this worries me but we really have no choice."

"Eh, don't get all stressed about it," Nagira drawled, leaning back in his chair. He tapped a cigarette out of his pack and exhaled heavily. "We don't have much of a choice here. We're going to do what we're going to do and that's that. And," here Nagira lit his cigarette, "I made a few phone calls today. Our friends who decided to run off and take on SOLOMON themselves are going to have a little backup."

Amon perked considerably, regarding his brother suspiciously. "What did you do?"

"Talked to some cats in Japan and China, the Philippines and Australia. They might not be able to come to Europe and assist in distracting Hunters here, but they can sure stir up trouble back home. The idea is to stretch SOLOMON as thin as humanly possible." Nagira ignored his brother's look of disdain. "They'll send Hunters from HQ, and that just means less Hunters to deal with here."

Sula frowned. "SOLOMON is huge, Nagira. Losing a few Hunters to other countries will not make a difference to them."

"She's right." Amon was frowning as well, disapproving. "You are just going to cause more people to be killed. Leave your contacts and friends out of all of this, Nagira."

Nagira chuckled some, shaking his head. "You two underestimate my friends and their friends. It's going to be okay, trust me."

Amon looked skeptical but did not pursue the matter further, instead turning his attention back to his glass. He rubbed at an eye as if a bit tired or feeling a bit fuzzy from alcohol. Nagira noticed this and a small smile lit his face. "Tired, buddy?"

"I didn't sleep very well last night," Amon answered obliviously, but his face darkened a split second later when he realized what his brother had been insinuating and that he'd just thrown fuel on the fire. "The room Robin stays in is much colder than what I am used to, and the snow didn't help matters any."

"Two of you in a bed…you figure that'd be pretty warm." Nagira was smirking and Sula managed to hide a tiny smile behind one slim hand. Amon did not dignify Nagira's comment with a response.

"I just want to drink bourbon and _relax_," Amon said finally, completely off subject. "At least give me that before we go out tomorrow and start blowing heads in—or possibly having our heads blown in." He took another drink from his glass. "I actually want to go to bed tonight rather _drunk_, so I can fall asleep immediately and not agonize over plans over and over again in my head, worrying that we're going to get ourselves all killed."

There was relative silence after Amon's uncharacteristically open and revealing statement. Sula looked elsewhere and sipped from her own glass, as if she was trying to give Amon a moment to himself. Nagira looked over at his brother evenly and then got up, moving towards the decanter and a glass.

"You know, that sounds like a damn good plan there, buddy," he said jovially, toasting his brother. "Let's get started, then."

……………………………..

Robin emerged from the bathtub feeling kind of drowsy and vaguely numb all over. She'd obviously spent too long in the warm bathwater and it had affected her brain, somehow. She shuffled off to her—their—room and changed into a slip, fully intending to crawl into bed and go to sleep. It had been decided that they were going to Iceland tomorrow, the first stop in their war against the committee. If all went well, by either the end of tomorrow or the day after, Oskari would be dead.

In the days following his death, Donald and Julien would die. And maybe if they were lucky, they'd catch two committee members together and they could kill two birds with one stone.

Sighing, Robin laid down on the bed. She'd told herself that she wasn't going to think about all of that today, on this last day of comforting familiarity of routine and relative safety. Amon had even told her earlier in the day to just spend the day relaxing and _not_ thinking about the journey they were about to embark upon. Now she was just so tired that she wanted to sleep, but was worried that if she laid there all she was going to do was obsess over plans.

She shivered. The room was very cold. A sudden knock at the door made her do more than shiver, it made her jump. "Yes?"

Nagira's head poked into the room, grinning. "Hey kid, you're missing the party."

Robin's eyebrow drew together in confusion as she sat up, looking at Nagira. "…party?"

"Yeah. Me, Amon-pissy-pants, Sula, Trygve, a bunch of other people…we're all having some drinks down in the parlor. You know, a kind of…_goodbye_ party, maybe." He tilted his head at her. "You gonna come down?"

Internally Robin waffled between her desire to spend time with people—specifically Amon—and her drowsiness. Nagira waited and watched her and seemed shocked when she sighed, sinking back down onto her back on the bed. "Oh, no," she murmured, snuggling into the mattress somewhat. "I am so very tired…this may be my last chance to have a long, good night's sleep. I think I'll just stay here and go to bed."

The lawyer was visibly disappointed. "Are you sure? I think it'd make everyone happy if you came down for a bit."

Frowning, Robin allowed her eyes to drift closed and she rolled away from Nagira, away from the door. "I know…I'm just very tired. Tell everyone I'm sorry and that I'll see them in the morning. Have fun with everyone for me."

Her words didn't seem to cheer Nagira any or make him any less disappointed. "Okay, okay. Good night, kid."

"Good night."

…………………………..

It felt as if someone had thrown a sack of lead onto the other side of the bed, the side near the windows. The sudden heavy weight jarred Robin awake and startled her into breathless wariness until she felt the firm and rather assertive grip of a familiar arm around her middle, pulling her close without any other options. Previously breathless, she was positively asphyxiating when she realized it was Amon, in bed and fairly under the influence gauging from the aroma of liquor and smoke that drifted off him in invisible waves.

"You're going to bed now?" she asked in the dark silence and then mentally criticized herself for it. Of course he was; why else would he be in the bed?

"Why didn't you come down earlier?" Amon asked, the question breathed right into her hair. It made her heart skip a beat, her eyes widen. This was not Amon's normal tone of voice, this low, quiet thing. Usually when Amon spoke, he spoke to make you know he was speaking. This was as if he only wanted Robin to hear him, there in the dark of the room, her body pulled close to his.

"I was tired." Those were the only words that would come to her, feeling the slight sandpaper texture of Amon's cheek against the side of her face as he held her back to his front, his arms curled around her like she was a stuffed animal. He breathed deeply, almost as if he was inhaling her scent.

"I sent Nagira to get you." His nose found its way up to her hair, his mouth half open, the breath warm and heavy against her scalp—he _was_ sniffing her. Robin was mostly frozen, excited and nervous and confused.

"I know. I was too tired to go downstairs." She was trying not to concentrate on the way Amon seemed to have gone a little crazy in sniffing her hair, his face burying in the long, loose locks that hung down the back of her neck, towards her shoulder blades. This was not normal Amon, not even normal _drunk _Amon—this was almost animal intimacy, like watching a mother cat with one of its kittens. Robin half expected Amon to bite into the back of her neck at any moment to drag her towards his side of the bed.

"I am drunk." It was a simple admittance from him, amidst the sniffing and…snuggling? Was that was he was doing into her hair, her neck? Robin's face was burning, her heart racing. Her body felt stiff, tense, immobile. Had she really been asleep all of thirty seconds ago? It was hard to believe so because she was so intensely awake right then, Amon's face and body seeking to meld into hers, somehow.

"Oh." Robin didn't know how to answer his statement. "Okay."

There was silence for a few heart-pounding moments as his arms tightened around her possessively, her mouth falling open to let out a breath—her bottom lip was trembling and she couldn't stop it.

"Am I scaring you?" Amon asked suddenly from within her hair, his arms wrapping around her completely in a bear hug from behind; the arm that wrapped underneath her came around far enough for his hand to rest on her hip. She swallowed.

"No," she breathed, and she wasn't sure if she was lying or not. If he was scaring her, it wasn't because she was _frightened_. It was because she was excited.

"Let's sleep. Tomorrow we go to Iceland." His words made Robin want to giggle, in a way—as if she'd be able to sleep with him hugging onto her like that, his face moving in her hair continually. Still, she could try, just to humour him. She could try to humour him in light of the fact that tomorrow their semi-normal lives would end and they'd be in more firmly in the shadow of death than they'd been during this whole long, crazy trip.

…………………………………..

Awkward. That was a pretty firm, accurate way of describing how he felt as he sat there next to her on the plane, sat there surrounded by people who somehow seemed to cast him knowing looks every time his eyes shifted to them.

_We know you're in love with her, and we know that your self control is crumbling faster than a sand castle in the incoming tide._

Or so their invisible, inaudible voices seemed to say to his brain. Amon rubbed at his eyes harshly, trying to ignore the dull ache in his head. Perhaps it had been good to cut loose a bit last night in good company, but perhaps not _as_ loose as he had cut—he'd lost track of how much gin he'd drank after his brother had started to make drinks for him, remembered a lot of laughter and a lot of silly talk. Halfway remembered was his trek up the stairs; mostly remembered was his sudden, fevered need to take Robin in his arms and hold her, cuddle her close and feel the bumps of her tiny bones beneath his hands, to smell the orange and ginger in her hair and her skin. Memory nearly wholly failed him after that, after the grabbing and cuddling.

God only knew what he'd said to her as he laid there in that bed, holding her as if she'd run if he let go. She probably would have, if he had. Incidentally he got the impression that she hadn't slept that well last night due to his death-grip on her body. She had faint smudges under her eyes, her movements were sloppy and groggy. She was reduced to a girlish mess of blushing and averted eyes when he looked at her or said anything to her.

Nagira's eyes were smug and accusatory. Amon stared at the seatback in front of him, resisting the urge to groan. It was no good to have all of this floating around on his mind right before he went into what he could term _battle_, but he couldn't help it. Robin was right next to him, her head leaned against the window exhaustedly. Out the window there was nothing but clouds and greyness; she couldn't truly be interested in whatever she saw out there. She was simply trying to avoid interaction with him.

Oskari first. Donald next. Then Julien. It was simple enough, if they could run faster than SOLOMON.

"Hung over?" Sigrún asked of Amon from across the aisle, having watched him rub at his eyes until they watered. Amon looked over at her and thought for a moment, then tendered a small nod. She smiled weakly.

"Me too, kind of." She rubbed her hand over the downy blonde hair on Eirikur's head as he slept against her torso, thumb stuck into his mouth like some kind of plug. "I feel like an irresponsible teenager."

"Yeah." Amon agreed with that statement in more ways than one. He looked around them at their small group; Trygve, Sigrún, Eirikur, Sula, Beatrix, Helle, Nagira, Robin, himself. It wasn't exactly a small group, but it was much smaller than it had been earlier that day, before all the witches in the house had gone their separate ways. Despite Amon's wishes, the unofficial mission of every witch in the house as they left had been to occupy SOLOMON in any way, shape, or form that they could. He wanted to tell the witches to go home, to go back to their families and to forget that they'd ever met him and Robin but he knew that there was a fat fucking chance of that ever happening.

Lots of people were going to be dead by the time this was all said and done.

Amon cast a glance down to his pocket, where the lump of a cell phone resided. It was Finn's cell phone. It had not rung since the day Robin had died, since Amon had answered it and snarled at whoever had called—if he'd been thinking clearly, he would have not snapped at the other line and would have goaded them to speak. Nagira had procured traces off several of the numbers on the phone, pinned several of them down. They were almost certain that one of two was Oskari's number; somehow, they were hoping to pull a trace from that and see where he was.

"Do you feel alright?" the soft voice at his side asked suddenly, and Amon jerked his head around to look at Robin; her concerned, luminous green eyes, her fine, cornsilk hair falling around her hair in wisps despite her half-bun. Her golden, ethereal eyelashes fluttered at him as she blinked.

She was bewitching him and she wasn't even doing anything.

This was the beginning of the end.

"I'm fine." He managed a stiff, rusty half smile at her for reassurance—even though he wasn't quite sure why it was so important to him to reassure her that he was fine—and that alone seemed to surprise her into a pleased haze, her own mouth curving upwards at him warmly, her eyes alighting with the inner fire that didn't come from her craft but from the force of her emotions.

This girl was in love with him and his brain was currently mostly occupied with how he was going to kill Oskari and run from SOLOMON afterwards, and how much of a drunken ass he'd been the night before. Somewhere, somehow, there had to come some prioritizing and Amon didn't know how to do it.

"Look," he began very quietly, barely heard above the noise of plane engines and odd-cabin pressurization, "Iam sorry about last night."

Robin's look of pure glowing love turned into childish confusion. "Why?" she asked, just as quietly. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Amon looked around quickly without moving his head to see if anyone was listening in—namely his brother, who was sitting in the bank of seats behind them, next to Sula. "Yes, I did. I overstepped my bounds. I'm sorry."

The look of perfect, innocent confusion remained plastered on Robin's pretty face. "How can you have overstepped your bounds if I'm not insulted? I suppose I don't understand why you are apologizing."

His eyes looked at her levelly before he let out a tiny, mostly inaudible sigh. "This isn't the most opportune place to discuss it. Just know that I'm sorry." He forced his face away from her confused look and back to the seatback in front of him. Amon could feel the questioning verdant eyes boring into the side of his face for a few seconds longer before Robin's gaze returned to the vacant sky space of the window.

Back to Iceland they were headed.

……………………………………………

"According to my contacts within the government and within SOLOMON itself, Oskari is still in the country—along with a handful of SOLOMON operatives," Trygve murmured in an undertone to Nagira and Sula as the group walked purposefully and briskly through the small airport. "The SOLOMON contacts are through Gróa; a holdover from the days when she used to work for them."

"Is that safe?" Nagira asked critically, his eyebrows cocked at Trygve. "To be in contact with SOLOMON in light of the circumstances?"

Resolutely the Icelandic man nodded his head, looking over to Nagira. "Robin's grandfather, I suppose, should be evidence of the prevailing quality of human beings to help one another—even those within SOLOMON can remember old friendships, old alliances. Gróa—Gods keep her in their halls—was well-liked and well-respected among her former colleagues."

Nagira looked ahead, continuing to walk, his brain mulling for a moment. "So, why did Gróa ever leave SOLOMON, anyway?" he queried.

"Because of me," Trygve answered, a bit sadly. "Look at how she got paid back."

Sula was deeply concerned suddenly, her hand upon her brother's arm as they walked. Incomprehensible Nordic babble came from her mouth as she spoke to her brother in a soothing tone—as soothing as Icelandic could sound—and Nagira looked away to give them privacy, even though he had no clue what the hell they were saying to one another. It just seemed like the proper thing to do. Allowing them their space, he slowed his step and fell back in line with his brother and Robin, casting a spare glance over at Amon. "So, Cochise, what're we gonna do after we flee the Continent like dogs with our tails between our legs?"

Amon bristled, as Nagira knew he would at the simile to dogs, but managed a civilized answer. "I'm working on it. Don't worry about it." Typically cryptic, typically Amon. A quick look at Robin revealed that she didn't appear outwardly—or at all—concerned about where they were going after all of this. Her fate, as far as she was concerned, was completely safe and well-guided in Amon's capable yet disturbed hands.

"Whatever," Nagira replied, already digging in his coat pocket for his pack of cigarettes as they approached the outside doors, bracing himself for the harsh, cold wind. "How're we gonna find this Oskari character, anyway?" he continued, looking at his brother skeptically. Amon was impassive as usual.

"I'm working on that as well. You shouldn't worry about that, either." Amon was either saying these things because he seriously was planning something or because he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do but didn't want to let on about it. Nagira rolled his eyes and stood there on the curb with the rest of the group as Sula tried to hail some taxis to take them to their hotel.

………………………………

Everyone else was joined up in Trygve and Sigrún's room, sitting on bed-ends and chairs and discussing plans. Robin slipped away as discreetly as possible back to the room she was sharing with Amon to discover what was keeping him from the semi-meeting. He wasn't the most social of creatures but it was highly unusual for him to miss a tactics meeting of sorts.

Opening the door, she found him sitting on the bed with his laptop and some wires, a strange device and a cell phone. At first Robin thought it was his cell phone, but then she looked at it and recognized it as the cell phone that had once belonged to Finn. She cocked an eyebrow questioningly. "What are you doing?" she queried. "Everyone is in the other room, talking."

"If I can figure out which one of these numbers is Oskari's by cross-referencing it against the checks Nagira had run for him, we're not going to need to talk. We'll be able to locate Oskari by his phone records, by pinpointing the nearest cell phone tower that transmitted his incoming or outgoing calls. We might even be able to find him tonight, finish him off, and be out of the country before the end of the day."

Robin blinked in mild shock. "Um. Isn't that a bit of a rush?"

He looked up at her briefly, jarringly. "I want to start this as quickly as possible. Once either SOLOMON or the committee catches wind of what we're doing, they are going to try to make it as difficult as possible for us. I would rather hurry and complete objectives than try to slink around and act sneaky. They're probably already expecting retaliation beyond Finn for what they did to you."

She walked over to the bed, watching Amon manipulate the technology to his will as he always had been able to. Robin was somewhat of a dunce with all things electronic; she'd required extensive training in order to be able to use even the simplest of palm pilots and communicators. "I just don't know if it's wise to rush into a fight, guns blazing, when we're not sure of the circumstances. We don't even know if Oskari's still here…and if he is here, if he's here alone."

"It would be simplest for one or two people to go after him, once he's located," Amon went on as if he hadn't even heard Robin. "There are too many of us to go running after one man. It would be too conspicuous."

His comment drew a frown from Robin, her brows lowering. "It would be better to stick together, I think. Safety in numbers…on top of that, we don't even know what Oskari's Craft is. It could be something potentially difficult for only one or two people to handle." Realization lit on her face. "Unless one of the one or two people was _me_. I think, perhaps…" here Robin trailed off, perhaps worried about sounding prideful, "…handle any Craft that was thrown at me."

A snort issued from Amon. "Absolutely not. You're not going anywhere alone. You're not going anywhere with anyone else. You're too vital to all of this—you're going to stay put and let your soldiers do your dirty work for you, no matter what." He pretended to ignore Robin's look of teenage indignation. "That's final, Robin. We'll take care of it all. Your only concern is to stay safe and alive no matter what is happening."

Silence reigned momentarily as Robin tried to decipher what exactly Amon was doing with all the devices. "But…" She huffed. "Amon, I am the most powerful out of _all_ of you. It seems foolishness to keep me in the reserves when I could be on the front line."

"Too great of a risk," he said simply, dismissively. He tapped at keys urgently and Robin craned her head to see, curious. "You should go back to talking with the others. They need your presence."

"What are you doing there?" Robin asked curiously, craning her head further to see the computer screen. Amon looked up at her suddenly, his eyes hard and purposeful.

"Go back to the others," he said, almost commanded. "Your presence is a morale-booster for them."

Their eyes locked for a moment as Robin slid hers from the computer screen to her warden's face. Her eyebrows began to lift in understanding as she gazed at him. Leaning back, Robin folded her thin arms over her chest, frowning in disapproval. "You intend to go after him by _yourself_, don't you?" she asked suddenly, bluntly. Amon merely stared at her and then turned back to his laptop, tapping away at the keys. She let her green eyes bore into him. "_Aren't_ you?"

A noise like a frustrated sigh emerged from Amon and his tapping ceased, his head turning to look up at Robin. "No. No, I'm not."

Robin's face was skeptical and unconvinced, still frowning in concern. "You are lying to me, I think." She didn't seem to be ruffled by the darkening of his look. "Amon, if you consider it so important for me to stay behind and remain safe then you _must_ see the risk in running off alone to take on a skilled Craft-user—one whose Craft you don't even know."

He was still staring at her with a look that spoke of angry guilt. Robin _knew_ that he was planning to go off by himself; it was just such a typically Amon thing to do. "I don't know why you feel compelled to lecture me. I just told you that I am _not_ planning on going off by myself."

She wanted to believe his words. She wanted to believe them so badly that it hurt her inside. Robin may have been the ward and Amon the warden but she was the _Eve_ and he was one of the members of her entourage. She wasn't about to let him go running off into danger on her watch. "Then come to Trygve and Sigrún's room. Turn off the laptop and come to the meeting."

Their eyes were still linked in a wordless battle, the battle of their wills and the battle of truth versus deception. Amon did not speak, nor did he move. "Or," Robin continued, her voice like quiet steel, "_promise_ me that you are not going to go off on your own. _Swear_ to me."

That clinched it. Slowly, his eyes not leaving hers, Amon began to disconnect wires from the computer and the phone, taking things apart and putting things away. He closed the laptop slowly and evenly as if trying to keep himself from snapping and flying off into rage. "There." His voice was plain. "I'll come to their room. But I will not make promises that I am not sure that I can keep."

Something akin to ire bubbled in Robin. "If you go, I'll find you. I can do that. _Easily_."

Standing, her warden looked away from her, exhaling heavily. His hands came to rest on his hips as he looked over at a wall in disgruntlement, looking at it as if it owed him some sort of explanation. "No more talk of this. Let's go to their room. Come on."

Robin sensed that Amon was not going to give up his power over situations without a fight.

………………………………..

Rubbing at his eyes in bored frustration, Reznik rocked back and forth slightly in his desk chair. The voice coming from the phone pressed against his ear was droning on, all bad or kind of worthless news. That's all that seemed to come from SOLOMON, nowadays.

"Something's happening," the man on the other line said, sounding as frustrated as Reznik felt. "They're splitting up. We lost track of the main group, the one housing Robin Sena and Amon Novotne. We've dispatched intelligence agents to Japan to investigate the claims that Novotne's half-brother, Syunji Nagira, has taken an extended vacation to Europe."

Reznik swore, loudly, his hand slapping onto his desk. "_I_ could have told you that Novotne's half-brother is along for the ride, you moron. I've _met_ the man! You're doing exactly what they want you to do, you know that, right?" Silence came from the other line; confused, chastised silence. "You're spreading yourselves thin, making yourselves weak—I _know_ the way these people's minds work, and that is _exactly what they want you to do_." The Czech man forced a calming breath out of his mouth and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. "Now, how exactly did you lose track of the main group? Trygve isn't _that_ resourceful."

"We think that they had help from within," the man on the other line explained, a trifle sheepishly. "Recall that Gróa Guðmundsdóttir once worked for SOLOMON and that's how she became so well connected in the witch underground. We think that Trygve may have reached out to members still sympathetic to Gróa and what she stood for, and pumped them for information." A deep, worried breath came from the other line. "…we think that they may have had help from even higher up than that, as well."

Reznik scowled vehemently, his sharp features pulling into a look of almost animal fury. "That bastard. That _bastard_. I knew we should have done something about him long ago…"

"He's too high up," the man spoke, hurriedly. "You couldn't possibly go after Juliano—he sits on the High Council. He can do whatever he wants…not even _you_ have the resources or the sway to go after him. And after all, it is common knowledge that he went to Japan after he'd ordered Novotne to Hunt Sena, and Novotne had gone rogue. It's common knowledge that he went there to…reestablish contact with his granddaughter, in a way."

The scowl was still plastered on Reznik's face. "Contact Oskari. Call him back from Iceland and tell him he has something to take care of in Italy for us."

"You can't be serious." The man's voice sounded horrified. "If you go after Juliano, you will only bring the wrath of SOLOMON upon you—"

"I think you're greatly disillusioned as to who controls who, in all of this," Reznik snapped, cutting the man off. "SOLOMON's wrath means no more to me than a fly bothers an elephant. Oskari should be more than done cleaning up in Iceland by now. Bring him back to the Continent."

The tinny voice of the man on the phone tittered. "We cannot reach Oskari."

If Reznik had been frustrated and angry before, he was approaching a minor explosive meltdown by that point. His jaw clenched; he was sick of these games. He was sick of little Robin Sena running round all of the world, running around like she had a right to be there—he was sick of her complicating his life. "What do you _mean_ you cannot reach Oskari?"

"He hasn't answered his phone for a day or so. We last had him triangulated at…" The sound of shuffling papers. "…Gróa Guðmundsdóttir's house. Not only had we placed him there by a phone trace, but we have documented phone records of him stating he was there."

Reznik blinked. "He's just…sitting there? There's nothing left at that house; why would he be there?"

The man on the other line gave a silent yet somehow perceptible shrug. "We haven't been able to figure that out either. By all accounts he should have left Iceland yesterday. For some reason he is still there."

Realization lit up Reznik's features suddenly, like a lightbulb in a dark room. He swore, this time in Czech. "They're on their way to Iceland. They must be. Oskari would never wait there, wait there in Gróa's house unless he knew someone was coming." Reznik swore again, almost uncontrollably. "Damn that man and his sense of righteous battle honour!"

On the other end of the line, in Rome, the SOLOMON man was perplexed. "What now?"

"Oskari is waiting there for Sena and her little cohorts to find him," Reznik snapped, standing with purpose and fairly bursting through the doors of his study. "He's waiting for a _battle_ and he isn't keeping contact with us because he _knows_ I would disapprove of his actions at this point. Get your Hunters back on the line," he continued, grumbling at himself internally for 'stretching' SOLOMON yet more, "and tell them to get back to Iceland, if they're not still there. I will send some of my own people—if they are in Iceland and planning to try to take out Oskari, I will ensure that they will meet with a battle of epic proportions. Somehow Oskari caught wind of them coming to Iceland—probably through SOLOMON double-agents—and now he's _waiting_."

"If they're there, they may have already acted—"

"_Do it_! And start looking into Juliano!" Reznik shouted, and then brought the phone away from his ear, snapping it shut with a vengeance.

Who would have ever known that a fifteen year old girl could be such a problem?

…………………………….

It wasn't difficult to move from the bed without disturbing Robin.

Amon had purposely avoided sleeping anywhere near the slight girl in the hopes that she would not get too close to him and awaken confused and disgruntled at his departure.

They were sharing a bed in a hotel room, even though they didn't have to. They could have gotten two beds, if they'd wanted to. These thoughts plagued Amon's mind as he dressed quickly and silently in the pitch darkness, the sound of Robin's delicate sleep-breathing pounding in his hyper-sensitive ears. Now was not the time to contemplate the intricacies of he and Robin's relationship.

The keys to one of the rental vehicles had been easy enough to lift, earlier in the evening. In Trygve's room, the keys had laid upon one of the counters near the bathroom, in a heap. Amon, feigning needing to blow his nose, had silently and quickly lifted one of the pairs of keys from the counter with a subtly outstretched index finger, slipping them into his pocket before anyone had even noticed. No one would notice, considering all the keys were so close to one another and there would be no need for driving until tomorrow morning.

Guns, two of them. He'd loaded them and prepared them earlier that evening while Robin bathed, the noise of her running bath masking the sounds of him locking and loading and shuffling weaponry about.

Robin shifted in her sleep, a tiny movement; nevertheless it made Amon pause in cat-like stealth, dropping down low to the ground so that if she did open her eyes she would perhaps think he had just gone to the bathroom or something. No such reaction came out of her, however, and Amon stood again fluidly, looking over her sleeping form in the dark. Her arm and hand were outstretched, flung far from her body on the bed. His brain worried; she was searching in sleep for the form of his body. She already knew, on some deep level, that he was gone.

He finished his preparations and slipped out the door without a sound, feeling guilty and criminal but feeling responsible and noble at the same time.

He knew where that bastard was. And he was going to take care of it before anyone else even had a chance to think about it.

…………………………………..

**A/N: Yeah. This isn't the whole chapter that I'd originally wanted to post. There was more I wanted to write but basically I began to feel shitty for having not updated in so long, so I decided to just slap this up since it's at kind of a natural break in the story. **

**I'm bad, dude. I've been so damn busy lately that I've neglected writing and the intarweb in general. Sorry to all of the people who have been waiting about forever and a fucking day for an update…I've been mad busy, but I haven't forgotten about our darling little TDL characters. XDDDDDD**


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